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THE 



POETICAL WORKS 



ALFRED TENNYSON, 

IJ 
POET LAUREATE. 



COMPLETE EDITION. 
WITH TWENTY-FOUR ILLUSTRATIONS. 



BOSTON: 

HOUGHTON, OSGOOD AND COMPANY. 

C!)c Eiticrsiic Prcsi,.. Cambritisc. 

1879. 



^^^^f 

^n^ 



It is my wish that with Messrs. Ticknor and Fields alone thej 
right of publishi.ig my books in America should rest 

AI,FRED TENNYSON. 



QiFT 
Mi«S LETlTtA T- OMAS 
AUa- 3. 1940 



The Iliverside Press, Cambridge : • 
Priatnl by H. O. Houghton and Company. 



1 



EDITIONS OF TENNYSON'S POEMS. 



POEMS. 
Do 
Do. 
Do. 
Do. 
Do. 
Do. 
Do. 
Do. 

Do. 
Do. 
Do. 
Do. 

Do. 
Do. 
Do. 



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' ^' A\'^ v: *^"" 




'f 



M/^^iVcr^^* 



-h 



3A" 



CONTENTS. 



Poems (Published 1830) :— "^^^^ 

To the Queen ' 

Claribel ^ 

~ Lilian '* 

-.- Isabel ^ 

Mariana ...2 

To 3 

Madeline ....••••• * ^mi ' —mm*- ^ 

Snni?. —The Owl ■ »»., ,^ . — ^^..^i.^^,)^ ' ■ • * • 4 

Second Song •• •••.■•"4 

Recollections of the Arabian Nights • • 4 

Ode to Memory 5 

Song 

Adeline * 

A Character 7 

The Poet 7 

The Poet's Mind 8 

The Sea-Fairies 8 

The Deserted House g 

The Dying Swan . 9 

A Dirge 9 

Love and Death 10 

The Ballad of Oriana 10 

Circumstance ....11 

The Merman 11 

The Mermaid ....11 

Sonnet to J. M. K « . . 12 

VOEMS (Published 1832): — 

The Lady of Shalott 12 

Mariana in the South 14 

Eleanore 15 

The Miller's Daughter 16 

Fatima iB 

CEnone 18 

The Sisters 21 

To 

The Palace of Art 21 



4- 



CONTENTS. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere .... ^ .. . -^..^ ■ ■— ' 

The May Queen ^. 

New-Year's Eve 26 i 

Conclusion ... „_ 1 

27 I 

The Lotos-Eaters 28 • 

A Dream of Fair Woinen in \ 

Margaret 11 \ 

The Blackbird . •'•'.'. 34 I 

The Death of the Old Year ' ' ' ,. ' 

T°J-S- ' 35 

" You ask me why, tho' ill at ease " ,- f 

" Of old sat Freedom on the heights " ^6 I 

" Love thou thy land, with love far-brought " . , -g 

The Goose , -^—^ 



English Idyls and other Poems (Published i£42) 

The Epic 

Morte d'Arthur 



38 

The Gardener's Daughter ; or. The Pictures 
Dora 



4' 



44 j 

45 \ 



Audley Court 

Walking to the Mail . jk 

Edwin Morris ; or, The Lake . . . > .... 

St. Simeon Stylites 

The Talking Oak 

Love and Duty ,4 

The Golden Year -c 

Ulysses r; 

Locksley Hall ^6 

Godiva 60 

The Two Voices 61 

The Day-Dream 65 

Amphion 68 

St. Agnes 69 

Sir Galahad 69 

Edward Gray 70 

Will Waterproofs Lyrical Monologue 70 

To , after reading a Life and Letters 72 

To E. L., on his Travels in Greece .73 

Lady Clare 73 

The Lord of Burleigh 74 

Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere 75 

A Farewell 75 

The Beggar Maid 75 

The Vision of Sin 75 

" Come not, when I am dead " 78 

The Eagle 78 

" Move eastward, happy Earth, and leave " 78 

" Break, break, break " 78 

The Poet's Song 78 



CONTENTS. vii 

The Princess : A Medley ^ 79 

In Memoriam ,,..,, 113 

Maud, and other Poems: — 

Maud 14X 

The Brook ; an Idyl 156 

The Letters 158 

Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington 155 

The Daisy i5i 

To the Rev. F. D. Maurice 162 

Will .163 

The Charge of the Light Brigade 1O3 

Idvl3 of the King: — 

Dedication 164 

Enid 164 

Vivien 182 

Elaine 190 

Guinevere .............. 204 

Enoch Arden 211 

Additional Poems: — 

Aylmer's Field ............. 223 

Sea Dreams 22'. 

The Grandmother 231 

Northern Farmer 234 

Tithonus 23s 

The Voyage 236 

In the Valley of Cauteretz 237 

The Flower 237 

Requiescat , 237 

The Sailor-Boy 238 

The Islet 238 

The Ringlet 238 

A Welcome to Alexandra 239 

Ode sung at the Opening of the Inteniatiouat Exhibition .... 239 

A Dedication 239 

The Captain ; a Legend of the Navy 239 

Three Sonnets to a Coquette 2^0 

On a Mourner 240 

Song 241 

Song 241 

Experiments: — 

Buadicea 241 

In Quantity 243 

Specimen of a Translation of the Iliad in Blank Verse ..... 243 

The Holy Grail and other Poems: — 

The Coming of Arthur , . . . . 245 

The Holy Grail 249 



viii CONTENTS. 

Pelleas and Ettarre 258 

The Passing of Arthur 264 

Miscellaneous : — 

Northern Farmer. New Style 269 

The Victim 270 

Wages 271 

The Higher Pantheism 271 

Lucretius 271 

The Golden Supper 274 

Additional Poems: — 

Timbuctoo 281 

Poems published in the Edition of 1830, and omitted in Later Editions: — 

Elegiacs 283 

The " How " and the " Why " 284 

Supposed Confessions of a second-rate sensitive Mind not in Unity with itself 284 

The Burial of Love 286 

To 286 

Song 286 

Song 286 

Song 287 

Nothing will die 287 

All Things will die 287 

Hero to Leander 288 

The Mystic 286 

The Grasshopper 288 

Love, Pride, and Forgetfulness 289 

Chorus in an unpublished Drama, written very early 289 

Lost Hope 289 

The Tears of Heaven 289 

Love and Sorrow 289 

To a Lady Sleeping 290 

Sonnet 290 

Sonnet 290 

Sonnet 290 

Sonnet 290 

Love 290 

The Kraken 291 

English War-Song '. . . 291 

National Song 291 

Dualisms 292 

We are Free 292 

The Sea Fairies 292 

Oi peoi'Tes 293 

Poems published in the Edition of 1833, and omitted in Later Editions : — 

Sonnet 293 

To — ^— 293 

Bonaparte .... 294 

Sonnets 294 

The Hesperides 294 



CONTENTS. ix 

Rosalind 295 

Song 296 

Kate 296 

Sonnet written on hesring of the Outbreak of the Polisli Insurrection . . 296 

Sonnet on the Result of the late Russian Invasion of Poland .... 296 

Sonnet 297 

O Darling Room 297 

To Christopher North 297 

Fugitive Poems : — 

No More . 297 

Anacreontics 2:^7 

A Fragment 207 

Sonnet 29S 

Sonnet 298 

The Skipping-Rope " 298 

The New Timon and the Poets 298 

Stanzas 299 

Sonnet to William Charles Macready 299 

Britons, guard your own 299 

The Third of February, 1852 300 

Hands all round 300 

The War 301 

On a Spiteful Letter 301 

1865 -1866 301 

The Window ; or, the Songs of the Wrens. 

On the Hill 302 

At the Window 302 

Gone ! 302 

Winter • 303 

Spring 303 

The Letter 303 

No Answer 303 

No Answer 303 

The Answer 333 

Ay! 304 

When ? 304 

Marriage Morning 304 

Gareth and Lynette 305 

Thk Last Tournament 321 

Epilogue to Idyls of the King 329 

A Welcome to the Duke and Duchess of Edinburgh 330 

In the Garden at Swainston 331 

The Voice and the Peak 331 

Queen Mary 332 

Harold 382 

The Revenge 4"> 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 



Page 

" Her tears fell with the dews at even " 2 

" Adown the Tigris I was borne " 4 

" Life and Thought have gone away " 8 

" 'The curse is come upon me,' cried the Lady of Shalott *' 12 

"The daughter of a hundred Earls " 24 

"O rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander more " 30 

" I have been to blame, to blame. I have killed my son " 44 

" Many an evening by the waters did we watch the stately sliiiw " , . . . 56 

" My beard has grown into my lap " 66 

" Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe " 74 

" Sweet my child, I live for thee " . . 102 

" Fair ship, that from the Italian shore " 114' 

" Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky " 134 

" She came to the village church " 146 

" Beheld the long street of a little town " 166 

" Drew back, and let her eyes speak for her " 186 

" Then to her tower she climb'd, and took the shield " 194 

Guinevere .... 204 

"Then Philip put the boy and girl to school " 214 

Aylmer Hall 220 

The Grandmother 232 

" An arm rose up from out the bosom of the lake " 266 

" Fie on thee, King 1 " 312 

" And crag and tree scaling " 322 



POEMS. 



(PUBLISHED 1830.) 



TO THE QUEEN. 

Revered, beloved — O you that hold 

A nobler office upon earth 

Than arms, or power of brain or birth 
Could give the warrior kings of old, 

Victoria, — since your Royal grace 
To one of less desert allows 
This laurel greener from the brows 

Of him that utter'd nothing base ; 

And should your greatness, and the care 
That yokes with empire, yield you time 
To make demand of modern rhyme 

If aught of ancient worth be there ; 

Then — while a sweeter music wakes. 
And thro' wild March the throstle calls, 
Where all about your palace walls 

The sunlit almond-blossom shakes — 

Take, Madam, this poor book of song ; 
For tho' the faults were thick as dust 
In vacant chambers, I could trust 

Your kindness. May you rule us long, 

And leave us rulers of your blood 

As noble till the latest day ! 

May children of our children say, 
" She wrought her people lasting good ; 

" Her court was pure ; her life serene ; 

God gave her peace ; her land reposed ; 

A thousand claims to reverence closed 
In her as Mother, Wife, and Queen ; 

" And statesmen at her council met 
Who knew the seasons, when to take 
Occasion by the hand, and make 

The bounds of freedom wider yet 

" By shaping some august decree. 
Which kept her throne unshaken still, 
Broad based upon her people's will, 

And compassed by the inviolate sea." 
March, 1851. 



CLARIBEL. 



A MELODY. 



Where Claribel low-lieth 

The breezes pause and die. 
Letting the rose-leaves fall : 
But the solemn oak-tree sighetb 
Thick-leaved, ambrosial, 

With an ancient melody 

Of an inward agony, 
Where Claribel low-lieth. 

2. 
At eve the beetle boometh 

Athwart the thicket lone : 
At noon the wild bee hummeth 

About the moss'd headstone : 
At midnight the moon conieth. 

And looketh down alone. 

3- 
Her song the lintwhite swelleth. 
The clear-voiced mavis dwelleth, 

The callow throstle lispeth. 
The slumberous wave outwelleth, 

The babbling runnel crispeth. 
The hollow grot replieth 
Where Claribel low-lieth. 



LILIAN. 
I. 

Airy, fairy Lilian, 

Flitting, fairy Lilian, 
When I ask her if she love me. 
Claps her tiny hands above me. 

Laughing all she can ; 
She '11 not tell me if she love me, 

Cruel little Lilian. 



When my passion seeks 
Pleasance in love-sighs 

She, looking thro' and thro' me 

Thoroughly to undo me. 
Smiling, never speaks : 

So innocent-arch, so cunning-simple, 



ISABEL. — MARIANA. 



From beneath her gatlier'd wimple 
Glancing with black-beaded e>es, 

Till the lightning laughters dimple 
The baby-roses in her cheeks ; 
Then away she tiies. 

3- 
Prythee weep, May Lilian ! 

Gayety without eclipse 

Wearieth me, May Lilian: 

Thro' my very heai-t it thrilleth 

When from crini cn-threaded lips 
Silver-treble laughter trilleih , 
Prythee weep, May Lil'ar 

4- 

Praying all I can, 
If prayers will not hush thee, 

Airy Lilian, 
Like a rose-leaf I will crush thee, 

Fairy Lilian. 



ISABEL. 

I. 
Eyes not down-dropped nor over-bright, but 
fed 
With the clear-pointed flame of chastity, 
Clear, without lieat, undying, tended by 
Pure vestal thoughts in the translucent 
fane 
Of her still spirit ; locks not wide dispread. 
Madonna-wise on either side her head ; 
Sweet lips whereon perpetually did reign 
The summer calm of golden charity. 
Were fixed shadows of thy fixed mood. 

Revered Isabel, the crown and head, 
The stately flower of female fortitude, 

Of perfect wifehood, and pure lowlihead. 

2. 

The intuitive decision of a bright 
And thorough-edged intellect to part 

Error from crime; a prudence to withhold; 

The laws of marriage character'd in gold 
Upon the blanched tablets of her heart ; 
A love still burning upward, giving light 
To read those laws : an accent very low 
In blandishment, but a most silver flow 

Of subtle-paced counsel in distress. 
Right to the heart and brain, tho' undescried, 

Winnnig its way with exlrenie gentleness 
Thro' all the outworks of suspicious pride ; 
A courage to endure and to obey ; 
A hate of gossip parlance and of sway, 
Crown'd Isabel, thro' all her jilacid life, 
The queen of marriage, a most perfect wife. 

3- 

The mellowed reflex of a winter moon ; 

A clear stream flowing with a muddy one. 

Till in its onward current it absorbs 

With swilter movement and in purer light 
The vexed eddies of its wayward brother ; 
A leaning and upbearing parasite, 
Clothing the stem, which else had fallen 
C|nite, 
With cluster'd flower-bells and ambrosial 
orb3 



Of rich fruit-bimches leaning on each 

other — 
Shadow forth thee ; — the world hath not 
another 
(Though all her fairest forms are tyi)es of thee, 
And thou of God in thy great charity) 
Of such a finish'd chasten'd purity. 



MARIANA. 
" Mariana in the inoated grange." 

Measui-e/cr Measure. 

V'lTH blackest moss the flower-plots 
Were thickly crusted, one and all : 
The rusted nails fell from the knots 

That held the peach to the garden-wall. 
The broken sheds look'd sad and strange : 
Unlilted was the clinking latch : 
Weeded and worn the ancient thatch 
Upon the lonely moated grange. 

She only said, " My life is dreary. 

He Cometh not," she said ; 

She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 

I would that 1 were dead ! " 

Her tears fell with the dews at even ; 

Her tears fell ere the dews were dried; 
She could not look on the sweet heaven. 

Either at morn or eventide. 
After the flitting of the bats. 

When thickest dark did trance the sky, 
She drew her casement-curtain by. 
And glanced athwart the glooming flats. 
She only said, "The night is dreary, 

He Cometh not," she said : 
She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 
1 would that I were dead 1 " 

Upon the middle of the night, 

Waking she heard the mght-fowl crow % 
The cock sung out an hour ere light : 

From the dark fen the oxen's low 
Came to her : without hope of change. 
In sleep she seemed to walk forlorn. 
Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed mom 
About the lonely moated grange. 

She only said, " The day is dreary. 

He Cometh not," she said ; 

She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 

1 would that I were dead !" 

About a stone-cast from the wall 

A sluice with blacken'd waters slept. 
And o'er it many, round and small, 

1 he cluster'd marish-mosses crept. 
Hard by a pojilar shook alway, 

W\ silver-green with gnarled bark ; 
For leagues no other tree did mark 
The level waste, the rounding gray. 
She only said, " My life is dreary, 

He Cometh not," she said : 

She said, " I am awearv, aweary, 

I would that I were dead ! " 

And ever when the moon was low. 

And the shrill winds were iip and away. 

In the white curtain, to andlro. 
She saw the gusty shadow sway. 




' Her tears fell with the dews at even ; 
Her tears fell ere the dews were dried." 



TO 



■MADELINE. 



But when the moon was very low. 

And wild winds bound wilhin their cell. 
The shadow of the poplar fell 
Upon her bed, across Iter brow. 

She only said, "The night is dreary. 

He Cometh not," she said ; 

She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 

1 would that I were dead !" 

All day wilhin the dreamy house, 

The doors upon their hinges creak'd ; 
The blue fly sung in the pane ; the mouse 

Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek'd. 
Or frnm the crevice peered about. 
Old faces glimmer'd thro' the doors. 
Old footsteps trod the upper floors. 
Old voices called her from without. 
She only said, "" My life is drearj'. 

He comeih not," she said ; 

She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 

I would that I were dead ! " 

The sparrow's chirrup on the roof. 

The slow clock licking, and the sound 
Which to the wooing wind aloof 

The poplar made, did all confound 

Her sen=e ; but most she loathed the hour 

When the thick-moted sunbeam lay 

Athwart the chambers, and the day 

Was sloping toward his western bower. 

Then said she, "I am very dreary. 

He will not come," she said ; 

She wept, " 1 am aweary, aweary, 

O God, that I were dead ! " 



to- 



Clear- FfK A DED friend, who.se Joyful scorn, 
Edged with sharp laughter, cutsatwain 
J'he knots that tangle human creeds. 
The wounding cords that bind and strain 
The heart until it bleeds, 
Ray-fringed eyelids of the mom 

Roof not a glance so keen as thine : 
If aught of prophecy be mine. 
Thou wilt not live in vain. 



X^ow-cowering shall the Sophist sit ; 

Falsehood snail bare her i^laited brow : 

F.iir-fronted Truth shall droop not now 
Will) shrilling shafts of subtle wit. 
Nor martyr-flames, nor trenchant swords 

Can do away that ancient lie ; 

A gentler death shall Falsehood die, 
Shot thro' and thro* with cunning words. 



Weak Truth a-leaning on her crutch, 
Wan, wasted Truth in her utniost need, 
Thv kingly intellect shall feed, 
Until she be an athlete bold, 



And weary with a finger's touch 
Those writhed limbs of lighintng speed ; 

Like that strange angel which of old. 
Until the breaking of the light. 

Wrestled with wandering Israel, 

Past Yabbok brook the livelong night, 

And heaven's mazed signs stood still 

In the dim tract of Penuel. 



MADELINE. 



Thoi; art not steeped in golden languors, 
No tranced summer calm is thine, 

Ever varying Madeline. 
Thro' light and shadow thou dost range, 
Sudden glances, sweet and .strange, 

Delicious spites and darling angers. 
And airy forms of flitting change. 



Smiling, frowning, evermore. 
Thou art perfect in love-lore. 
I^evealings deep and clear are thine 
Of wealthy smiles ; but who may know 
Whether smile or frown be fleeter? 
Whether smile or frown be sweeter, 

Who may know? 
Frowns perfect-sweet along the brow 
Light glooming over eyes divine. 
Like little clouds, sun-fringed, are thine, 
Ever varying Madeline. 
Thy smile and frown are not aloof 
From one another. 
Each to e.ich is dearest brother; 
Hues of the silken sheeny woof 
Momently shot into each other. 
All the mystery is thine ; 
Smiling, frowniing, evermore, 
Thou art perfect in love-lore. 
Ever varying Madeline. 



A subtle, sudden flame. 
By veering passion fann'd, 

About thee breaks and dances: 
When I would kiss thy hand. 
The flush of anger'd shame 

O'erflows thy calmer glances. 
And o'er black brows drops down 
A sudden-curved frown. 
But when I turn away. 
Thou, willing me to stay, 

Wooest not, nor vainly wranglest," 

But, looking fi.xedly the while, 
All my bountiing heart entanglest 

In a golden-netted smile ; 
Then in madness and in bliss. 
If my lips should dare to kiss 
Thy taper fingers amorously. 
Again thoii blushest angerly ; 
And o'er black brows drops down 
A sudden-curved frown. 



SONGS. ~ RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. 



SONG. — THE OWL. 



When cats run home and light is come, 

And dew is cold upon the ground, 

And the far-off stream is dumb, 

And the whirring sail goes round, 

And the whirring sail goes round ; 

Alone and warming his five wits, 

The white owl in the belfry sits. 



When merry milkmaids click the latch. 
And rarely smells the new-mown hay. 
And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch 
Twice or thrice his roundelay. 
Twice or thrice his roundelay : 
Alone and warming his five wits, 
The white owl in the belfry sits. 



SECOND SONG. 

TO THE SAME. 
\. 

Thy tuwhits are lull'd I wot. 

Thy tuwhoos of yesternight, 
Which upon the dark afloat. 
So took echo with delight, 
So took echo with delight. 
That her voice untuneful grown, 
Wears all day a fainter tone. 



I would mock thy chaunt anew ; 

But I cannot mimic it ; 
Not a whit of thy tuwhoo. 
Thee to woo to thy tuwhit, 
Thee to woo to thy tuwhit. 

With a lengthen'd loud halloo, 
Tuwhoo, tuwhit, tuwhit, tuwhoo-o-o. 



RECOLLECTIONS OF THE 
ARABIAN NIGHTS. 

When the breeze of a joyful dawn blew free 

In the silken sail of infancy. 
The tide of time flow'd back with me, 

The forward-flowing tide of time : 
And many a sheeny summer-morn, 
Adown the Tigris I was borne. 
By Bagdat's shrines of fretted gold. 
High-walled gardens green and old ; 
True Mussulman was I and sworn. 

For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Anight my shallop, rustling thro' 
The low and bloomed foliage, drove 
The fragrant, glistening deeps, and clove 
The cilron-shadows in the blue : 
By garden porches on the brim. 
The costly doors flung open wide. 
Gold glittering thro' lamplight dim, 
And broider'd sofas on each side : 
In sooth it was a goodly time, 



For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Often, where clear-stemm'd platans guard 

The outlet, did I turn away 

The boat-head down a broad canal 

From the main river sluiced, where all 

The sloping of the moon-lit sward 

Was damask-work, and deep inlay 

Of braided blooms unmown, which crept 

Adown to where the water slept. 

A goodly place, a goodly time. 

For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

A motion from the river won 
Ridged the smooth level, bearing on 
My shallop thro' the star-strown calm, 
Until another night in night 
I enter'd, from the clearer light, 
Imbower'd vaults of pillar'd palm, 
Imprisoning sweets, which as they clomb 
Heavenward, were stay'd beneath the dome 

Of hollow boughs. — A goodly time, 

For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Still onward ; and the clear canal 
Is rounded to as clear a lake. 
From the green rivage many a fall 
Of diamond rillets musical. 
Thro' little crystal arches low 
Down from the central fountain's flow 
Fall'n silver-chiming, seem'd to shake 
The sparkling flints beneath the prow. 
A goodly place, a goodly time. 
For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Above thro' many a bowery turn 
A walk with vary-color'd shells 
Wander'd engram'd. On either side 
All round about the fragrant marge 
From fluted vase, and brazen urn 
In order, eastern flowers large. 
Some dropping low their crimson bells 
Half-closed, and others studded wide 
With disks and tiars, fed the time 
With odor in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Far off, and where the lemon -grove 
In closest coverture upsprung. 
The living airs of middle night 
Died round the bulbul as he sung ; 
Not he : but something which possess'd 
The darkness of the world, delight. 
Life, anguish, death, immortal love, 
Ceasing not, mingled, unrepress'd. 
Apart from place, withholding time, 
But flattering the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Black the garden-bowers and grots 
Slumber'd : the solemn palms were ranged 
Above, unwoo'd of summer wind : 
A sudden splendor from behind 
Flush'd all the leaves with rich gold-green, 
And, flowing rapidly between 




" Ado-.vn the Tigris I was borne, 
By Bngdat's slirines of fretted gold.' 



ODE TO MEMORY. 



Tlieir interspaces, counterchanged 

The level lake with diamond-plots 

Of dark and bright. A lovely time, 

For it was in the golden prime 

Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Dark -blue the deep sphere overhead, 
Distinct with vivid stars inlaid. 
Grew darker from that under-flame : 
So, leaping lightly from the boat, 
With silver anchor left afloat. 
In marvel whence that glory came 
Upon me, as in sleep I sank 
In cool soft turf upon the bank. 
Entranced with that place and time, 
So worthy of the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Thence thro' the garden I was drawn — 
A realm of pleaiance, many a mound, 
And many a shadow-chequer'd lawn 
Full of the city's stilly sound, 
And deep myrrh-thickets blowing round 
The stately cedar, tamarisks. 
Thick rosaries of scented thorn, 
Tall orient shrubs, and obelisks 

Graven with emblems of the time, 

In honor of the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

'With dazed vision unawares 
From the long alley's latticed shade 
Emerged, I came upon the great 
Pavilion of the Caliphat. 
Right to the carven cedarn doors, 
Flung inward over spang'ed floors. 
Broad-based flights of marble stairs 
Ran up with golden balustrade. 
After the fashion of the time. 
And humor of the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

The fourscore windows all alight 
As with the quintessence of flame, 
A million tapers flaring bright 
From twisted silvers look'd to shame 
The hollow-vaulted dark, and stream'd 
Upon the mooned domes aloof 
In inmost Bagdat, till there seem'd 
Hundreds of crescents on the roof 

Of night new-risen, that marvellous time, 

To celebrate the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Then stole I up, and trancedly 

Gazed on the Persian girl alone. 

Serene with argent-lidded eyes 

Aniorous, and lashes like to rays 

Of darkness, and a brow of pearl 

Tressed with redolent ebony. 

In many a dark delicious curl. 

Flowing beneath her rose-hued zone ; 
The sweetest lady of the time, 
Well worthy of the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Six columns, three on either side. 
Pure silver, underpropt a rich 



Throne of the massive ore, from which 
Down-droop'd, in many a floating fold, 
Engarlanded and dia|;er'd 
With inwrought flowers, a cloth of golc. 
Thereon, his deep eye laughter-stirr'd 
With merriment of kingly pride. 
Sole star of all that place and time, 
I saw him — in his golden prime. 
The Good Hakoun Alraschid.' 



ODE TO MEMORY. 



Thou who stealest fire. 

From the fountains of the past. 

To glorify the present; oh, haste, 
Visit my low desire ! 

Strengthen me, enlighten me ! 

I faint in this obscurity. 

Thou dewy dawn of memory. 



Come not as thou camest of late. 
Flinging the gloom of yesternight 
On the white day ; but robed in soften"d liglit 

Of orient state. 
Whilonie thou camest v.'ith the morning mist, 

Even as a maid, whose stately brow 
The dew impearled vvindsofdawnhavekiss'd, 

When she, as thou, 
Stays on her floating locks the lovely freight 
Of overflowing blooms, and earliest shoots 
or orient green, ^living sale pledge of fruits, 
Which in winlertide shall star 
The black earth with brilliance rare. 



Whilome thou camest with the morning mist. 

And with the evening cloud. 
Showering thy gleaned wealth into my open 

breast, 
(Those peerless flowers which in the rudest 
wind 
Never grow sere. 
When rooted in the garden of the mind, 
Because they are the earliest of the year). 
Nor was the night thy shroud. 
In sweet dreams softer than unbroken rest 
Thou leddest by the hand thine infant Hope.- 
The eddying ofher garments caught from thee 
The light of thy great presence; and the cope 
Of the half-attain'd futurity. 
Though deep not fathomles?. 
Was cloven with the million stars which 

tremble 
O'er the deep mind of dauntless infancy. 
Small thought was there of life's distress; 
Vox sure she deem'd no mist of earth could 

dull 
Those spirit -thrilling eyes so keen andbeauti^ 

ful : 
.Sure she was nigher to heaven's spheres. 
Listening the lordly music flowing from 

The illimitable years. 
O strengthen me, enlighten me I 



SONG. — A DELINE. 



I faint in this obscurity. 
Thou dewy dawn of memory. 



Come forth I charge thee, arise, 

'J'hou of tlie many tongvies, the myriad eyes ! 

Thou comestnot with ahowsof flaunting vines 

Unto mine inner eye, 

Divinest Memory I 
Thou wert not nursed by the waterfall 
Which ever sounds and sliines 

A pillar of white light upon the wall 
Of purple cliffs, aloof descried : 
Come (rom the woods that belt the gray hill- 
side. 
The seven elms, the poplars four 
That stand beside my father's door. 
And chiefly from the brook that loves 
To purl o'er matted cress and ribbed sand, 
Or dimple in thj dark of rushy coves, 
■^rawing into his narrow earthen urn. 

In every elbow and turn. 
Tile filter'd tribute of tlie rough woodland. 

O ! hither lead thy feet ! 
Pour round mine ears the livelong bleat 
Of the thick-fleeced sheep from wattled folds. 

Upon the ridged wolds. 
When the first matin-sor.g hatli waken'd loud 
Over the dark dewy e.irih forlorn, 
What lime the amber morn 
Forth gushes I'roni beneath a low-hung cloud. 



Large dowries doth the raptured eye 
To the young spirit present 
When first she is wed ; 

And like a bride of old 
In triumph led, 

With music and sweet showers 
Of festal flowers. 
Unto the dwelling she must sway. 
Well hast thou done, great artist Memory, 
In setting round thy first experiment 
With royal frame-work of wrought gold; 
Needs must tlion dearly love thy first essay. 
And foremost in thy various gallery 
Place it, where sweetest sunlight falls 
Upon the storied walls ; 

For the discovery 
And newness of thine art so pleased thee, 
That all which thou hast drawn of fairest 

Or boldest since, but lightly weighs 
With thee unto the love thou bearest 
The first-born of ihy genius. Artist-like, 
Ever retiring thou dost gaze 
On the prime labor of thine early days : 
No matter wliat the sketch might be ; 
Whether the high field on the bushless Pike, 
Or even a sand-built ridge 
Of heaped hills that mound the sea, 
Overblown with murmurs harsh. 
Or even a lowly cottage whence we see 
Stretch'd wide and wild the waste enormous 

marsli, 
Where from the frequent bridge. 
Like emblems of infinity. 
The trenched waters rua from sky to sky ; 



Or a garden bower'd close 

With plaited alleys of the trailing rose. 

Long alleys falling dov;n to twilight grots. 

Or opening upon level plots 

Of crowned lilies, standing near 

Purple-spiked lavender: 

Whither in after life retired 

From brawling storms, 

f'rom weary wind. 

With youthful fancy reinspired. 

We may hold converse with all forms 

Of the many-sided mind. 

And those whom passion hath not blinded, 

Subtle-thoughted, myriad-minded. 

My friend, with you to live alone. 

Were how much better than to own 

A crown, a sceptre, and a throne I 

strengthen me, enlighten me! 

1 faint in this obscurity. 
Thou dewy dawn of memory. 



.SONG. 



A SPIRIT haunts the year's last hours 
Dwelling amid these yellowing bowers: 

To himself he talks ; 
For at eventide, listening earnestly. 
At his work you may hear him sob and sigh 

In the walks ; 

Earthward he boweth the heavy stalks 
Of the mouldering flowers : 

Heavily hangs the broad sunflower 

Over its grave i' the earth so chilly; 
Heavily hangs the hollyhock. 

Heavily hangs the tiger-lily. 



The air is damp, and hush'd, and close. 

As a sick man's room when he taketh repose 

An hour before death ; 
My very heart faints and my whole soul 

grieves 
At the moist rich smell of the rotting leaves, 
And the breath 

Of the fading edges of box beneath, 
And the year's last rose. 

Heavily hangs the broad sunflower 

Over its grave i' the earth .so chilly, 
Heavily hangs the hollyhock, 
Heavily hangs the tiger-lily. 



ADELINE. 



Mystery of mysteries. 

Faintly smiling Adeline, 
Scarce of earth nor all divine, 
Nor unhappy, nor at rest. 
But beyond expression fair 
With thy floating flaxen hair; 
Thy rose-lips and full blue eyes 

Take the heart from out my breast. 



A CHARACTER.— THE POET. 



Wlierefore those dim looks of thine, 
Shadowy, dreaming Adeline? 



Whence that aery bloom of thine, 

Like a lily which the sun 
Looks thro' in his sad decline, 

And a rose-bush leans upon. 
Thou that faintly smilest still, 

As a Naiad in a well, 

Looking at the set of day, 
' Or a phantom two hours old 

Of a maiden past away. 
Ere the placid lips be cold? 
Wherefore those faint smiles of thine, 

Spiritual Adeline? 



What hope or fear or joy is thine? 
Who talketh with thee, Adeline ? 
For sure thou art not ail alone : 

Do beating hearts of salient springs 
Keep measure with thine own ? 

Hast thou heard the butterflies 
What they say betwixt their wings? 
Or in stillest evenings 
With what voice the violet woos 
To his heart the silver dews ? 
Or « hen little airs arise. 
How the merry bluebell rings 
To the mosses underneath ? 
Hast thou look'd upon the breath 
Of the lilies at sunrise? 
Wherefore that faint smile of thine. 
Shadowy, dreaming Adeline ? 



Some honey-converse feeds thy mind. 
Some spirit of a crimson rose 
In love with thee forgets to close 
His curtains, wasting odorous sighs 
All night long on darkness blind. 
What aileth thee ? whom waitest thou 
With thy soften'd, shadow'd brow, 

And those dew-lit eyes of thine. 
Thou I'aint smiler, Adeline ? 



Lovest thou the doleful wind 

When thou gazest at the skies? 
Doth the low-tongued Orient 

Wander from the side of the mom, 
Dripping with Sabsan spice 
On thy pillow, lowly bent 

With melodious airs lovelorn. 

Breathing Light against thy face 

While his locks a-dropping twined 

Round thy neck in subtle ring 

Make a carcanet c*" rays, 

And ye talk together still. 
In the language wherewith Spring 
Letters cowslips on the hill ? 
Hence that look and smile of thine, 
Spiritu?' Adeline. 



A CHARACTER. 

With a half-glance upon the sky 
At night he said, " The wanderings 
Of this most intricate Universe 
Teach me the nothingness of things." 
Yet could not all creation pierce 
Beyond the bottom of his eye. 

He spake of beauty : that the dull 

.Saw no divinity in grass, 

Life in dead stones, or spirit in air ; 

Then looking as 't were in a glass. 

He smooth'd his chin and sleek'd his hair, 

And said the earth was beautiful. 

He spake of virtue : not the gods 
More purely, when they wish to charm 
Pailas and Juno sitting by : 
And with a sweeping of the arm. 
And a lack-lustre dead blue eye, 
Devolved his rounded periods. 

Most delicately hour by hour 
Hecanvass'd human mvsteries. 
And trod on silk, as if the winds 
Blew his own praises in his eyes. 
And stood aloof from other minds 
In impotence of fancied power. 

With lips depress'd as he were meek. 
Himself unto himself he sold : 
Upon himself himself did feed : 
Quiet, dispassionate, and cod. 
And other than his form of creed, 
With chisell'd features clear and sleek. 



THE POET. 

The poet in a golden chme was born. 

With golden stars above ; 
Dower'd with the hate of hate, the scorn of 
scorn, 
The love of love. 

He saw thro' life and death, thro' good and ill 

He saw thro' his own soul. 
The marvel of the everlasting will. 
An open scroll. 

Before him lay : with echoing feet he threaded 

The secretest walks of fame : 
The viewless arrows of his thoughts were 
headed 
And wing'd with flame, 

Like Indian reeds blown from his silver 
tongue. 
And of so fierce a flight, 
From Calpe unto Caucasus they sung. 
Filling with light 

And vagrant melodies the winds which bore 

Them earthward till ihey lit ; 
Then, like the arrow-seeds of the field flower 
The fruitful wit 



THE POET'S MIND. — THE SEA-FAIRIES. 



Cleaving, took root, and springing forth anew. 

Where'er ihey fell, behold, 
Like 10 ihe mother plant in semblance, grew 
A flower all gold. 

And bravely furnish'd all abroad to fling 

The winged shafts of truth, 
To throng with stately blooms the breath- 
ing spring 
Of Hope and Youth. 

So many minds did gird their orbs with 
beams. 
Tho' one did fling the fire. 
Heaven flow'd upon the soul in many dreams 
Of high desire. 

Thus truth was multiplied on truth, the 
world 
Like one great garden show'd. 
And thro' the wreaths of floating dark up- 
curl'd, 
Rare sunrise flow'd. 

And Freedom rear'd in that august sunrise 

Her beautiful bold brow, 
When rites and forms before his burning 
eyes 
Melted like snow. 

There was no blood upon her maiden robes 

Sunn'd by those orient skies : 
But round about the circles of the globes 
Of her keen eyes 

And inherraiment'shem was traced in flame 

Wisdom, a name to shake 
All evil dreams of power, — a sacred name. 
And when she spake. 

Her words did gather thunder as they ran, 

Arda; the lightning to the thunder 
Which fo ows it, riving the spirit of man. 
Making earth wonder, 

So was their meaning to her words. No 
sword 
Of wrath her riglit arm whirl'd. 
But one poor poet's scroll, and with his word 
She shook the world. 



THE POET'S MIND. 



Vex not thou the poet's mind 

With thy shallow wit : 
Vex not thou the iioet's mind ; 

For thou canst not fathom it. 
Clear and bright it should be ever, 
Flowing like a crystal river ; 
Bright as light, and clear as wind. 



Dark-brow'd sophist, come not anear ; 
All the place is holy ground ; 



Hollow smile and frozen sneer 

Come not here. 
Holy water will 1 pour 
Into every spicy flower 
Of the laurel-shrubs that hedge it around. 
The flowers would faint at your cruel cheer. 
In your eye there is death. 
There is frost in your breath 
Which would blight the plants. 
Where you stand you cannot hear 
From the groves within 
'1 he wild-bird's din. 
In the heart of the garden the merry bird 

chants, 
It would iall to the ground if you came in. 
In the middle leaps a fountain 
Like sl'.eet lirhtning. 
Ever brightening 
With a low melodious thunder ; 
All day and all night it is ever drawn 
From the brain of (he purple mountain 
Which stands in the distance yonder: 
It springs on a level of bowery lawn. 
Aid the mountain draws it from Heaven 

above, 
And il sings a song of undying love ; 
And yet, tho' its voice be so clear and full, 
You never would hear it ; your ears are so 

dull; 
So keeji w here you are : you are foul with sin ; 
It wou.d shrink to the earth it you came in. 



THE SEA-FAIRIES. 

Slow sail'd the weary mariners and saw, 
Betui.vt the green brink and the ruining 

foam, 
Sweet faces, rounded arms, and bosoms 

prest 
To little harps of gold ; and while they 

mused, 
Whit.pering to each otherhalfin fear, 
Shrill music reach'd them on the middle 

sea. 

Whither away, whither away, whither away ? 

fly no more. 
Whither away from the high green field, and 

the happy blossoming shore ? 
Day and night to the billow the fountain 

calls ; 
Down shower the gambolling waterfalls 
From wandering over the lea : 
Out of the live green heart of thedells 
They freshen the silvery-crimson shells, 
And thick with white bells the clover-hill 

swells 
High over the full-toned sea : 
O hither, come hither and furl your sails, 
Come hitherto me and to me : 
Hither, come hither and frolic and play ; 
Here it is only the mew that wails ; 
We will sing to you all the day : 
Mariner, mariner, furl your sails. 
For here are the blissful downs and dales, 
And merrily merrily carol the gales, 
And the spangle dances in bight and bay, 




Life and Thought have gone away 
Side by side." 



THE DESERTED HOUSE. — THE DYING SWAN.— A DIRGE. 



And the rainbow forms and flies on the land 

Over the islands free ; 

And the rainbow lives in the curve of the 

sand ; 
Hither, come hither and see ; 
And the rainbow hangs on the poising wave. 
And sweet is the color of cove and cave, 
And sweet shall your welcome be : 
O hither, come hither, and be our lords 
For merry brides are we : 
We will kiss sweet kisses, and speak sweet 

words : 
O listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten 
With pleasure and love and jubilee : 
() listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten 
When the sharp clear twang of the golden 

chords 
Runs up the ridged sea. 
Who can light on as happy a shore 
All the world o"er, all the world o'er? 
Whither away? listen and stay: mariner, 

mariner, fly no more. 



THE DESERTED HOUSE. 



Life and Thought have gone away 
Side by side, 
Leaving door and windows wide : 
Careless tenants they ! 



All within is dark as night : 
In the windows is no light ; 
And no murmur at the door. 
So frequent on its hinge before. 



Close the door, the shutters close. 

Or thro' the windows we shall see 
The nakedness and vacancy 

Of the dark deserted house. 



Come away : no more of mirth 

[s here or merry-making sound. 

The house was builded of the earth. 
And shall fall again to ground. 



Come away : for Life and Thought 
Here no longer dwell ; 
But in a city glorious — 
A great and distant city — have bought 
A mansion incorruptible. 

Would they could have stayed with us ! 



THE DYING SWAN. 



The plain wus grassy, wild and bare, 
Wide, wild, and open to the air, 

Which had built up everywhere 
An under-roof of doleful gray. 



With an inner voice the river ran, 
Adown it floated a dying swan, 

And loudly did lament. 
It was the middle of the day. 
Ever the weary wind went on. 

And took the reed-tops as it went. 



Some blue peaks in the distance rose, 
\\\A white against the cold-white sky. 
Shone out their crowning snows. 

One willow over the river wejit, 
.-Viid shook the wave as the wind did sigh; 
Above in the wind was the swallow. 
Chasing itself at its own wild will, 
.And far thro' the marisn green and still 

The tangled water-courses slept, 
.Shot over with purple, and green, and yellow 



The wild swan's death-hymn took the soul 
Of that waste place with joy 
Hidden in sorrow : at first to the ear 
The warble was low, and full and clear ; 
And floating about the under-sky. 
Prevailing in weakness, the coronach stole ; 
Sometimes afar, and sometimes anear 
But anon her awful jubilant voice, 
With a music stran'^e and manifold, 
Flow'd forth on a carol free and bold ; 
As when a mighty people rejoice 
With shawms, and with cymbals, and harps 

of gold. 
And the tumult of their acclaim isroU'd 
Thro' the open gates of the city afar, 
To the shepherd who watcheth the evening 

star. 
And the creeping mosses and clambering 

weeds. 
And the willow-branches hoar and dank, 
.And the wavy swell of the soughing reeds, 
And the wave-worn horns of the echoingbanl 
And the silvery marish-flowers that thronj; 
The desolate creeks and pools among, 
Were flooded over with eddying song. 



A DIRGE. 



Now is done thy long day's work ; 
Fold thy palr..s across thy breast. 
Fold thine aims, turn to thy rest. 

Let them rave. 
Shadows of the silver birk 
Sweep the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 



Thee nor carketh care nor slander; 
Nothing but the small cold worm 
Frettetii thine enshrouded form. 

Let them rave. 
Light and shadow ever wander 
O'er the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 



LOVE AND DEATH. — THE BALLAD OF ORIANA. 



Thou wilt not turn upon thy bed ; 
Chanteth not the brooding bee 
Sweeter tones 'han calumny ? 

Let them rave. 
Thou wilt never raise thine head 
From the green that folds thy grave 

Let them rave. 



Crocodiles wept tears for thee ; 

The woodbine and eglatere 

Drip sweeter dews than traitor's tear. 

Let them rave. 
Rain makes music in the tree 
O'er the green that folds thy grave 

Let them rave. 



Round thee blow, self-pleached deep, 
Bramble-roses, faint and pale, 
And long purples of the dale. 

Let them rave. 
These in every shower creep 
Thro' the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 



The gold-eyed kingcups fine ; 
The frail bluebell pecreth over 
Rare broidry of the purple clover. 

Let them rave. 
Kings have no such couch as thine. 
As the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 

7- 
Wild words wander here and there ; 
God's great gift of speech abused 
Makes thy memory confused : 

But let them rave. 
The balm-cricket carolsclear 
In the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 



LOVE AND DEATH. 

What time the mighty moon was gathering 

light 
Love paced the thymy plots of Paradise, 
And all about him roll'd his lustrous eyes ; 
When, turning round a cassia, full in view 
Death, walking all alone beneath a yew, 
And talking to himself, first met his sight : 
' You must begone," said Death, " these 

walks are mine." 
Love wept and spread his sheeny vans for 

flight ; 
Yet ere he parted said, " This hour is thine : 
Thou art the shadow of life, and as the tree 
Stands in the sun and shadows all beneath, 
So in the light of great eternity 
Life eminent creates the shade of death ; 
The shadow passeth when the tree shall fall. 
But I shall reign forever over all." 



THE BALLAD OF ORIANA. 

Mv heart is wasted with my woe, 

Oriana. 
There is no rest for me below, 

Oriana. 
When the long dun wolds are ribb'd with 

snow. 
And loud the Norland whirlwinds blow, 

Oriana, 
Alone I wander to and fro, 

Oriana. 

Ere the light on dark was growing, 

Oriana, 
At midnight the cock was crowing, 

Oriana : 
Winds were blowing, waters flowing. 
We heard the steeds to battle going, 

Oriana ; 
Aloud the hollow bugle blowing, 

Oriana. 

In the yew-wood black as night, 

Oriana, 
Ere I rode into the fight, 

Oriana, 
While blissful tears blinded my sight 
By star-shine and by moonlight, 

Oriana, 
I to thee my troth did plight, 

Oriana. 

She stood upon the castle wall, 

Oriana : 
She watch'd my crest among them all, 

Oriana : 
She saw me fight, she heard me call. 
When forth there stept a foeman tall, 

Oriana, 
Atween me and the castle wall, 

Oriana. 

The bitter arrow went aside, 

Oriana : 
The false, false arrow went aside, 

Oriana : 
The damned arrow glanced aside. 
And pierced thy heart, my love, my bride, 

Oriana ! 
Thy heart, my life, my love, my bride, 

Onana ! 

Oh I narrow, narrow was the space, 

Oriana. 
Loud, loud rung out the bugle's brays, 

Oriana. 
Oh ! deathful stabs were dealt apace. 
The battle deepen'd in its place, 

Oriana ; 
But I was down upon my face, 

Oriana. 

They should have stabb'd me where I lay, 

Oriana ! 
How could ! rise and come away, 

Oriana ? 
How could I look upon the day? 



CIRCUMSTANCE.— THE MERMAN.— THE MERMA/D. 



They should have stabb'd me where I lay, 

Oriana — 
They sliould have trod me into clay, 

Oriana. 

O breaking heart that will not break, 
"Oriana ! 

pale, pale face so sweet and meek, 

Oriana ! 
Thou smilest, but thou dost not speak. 
And then the tears run down my cheek, 

Oriana : 
What wantest thou? whom dost thou seek, 

Oriana ? 

1 cry aloud : none hear my cries, 

Oriana. 
Thou comest alween me and the skies, 

Oriana. 
I feel the tears of blood arise 
Up from my heart unto my eyes, 

Oriana. 
Within thy heart my arrow lies, 

Oriana. 

O cursed hand ! O cursed blow ! 
Oriana ! 

happy thou that liest low, 

Oriana ! 
All night the silence seems to flow 
Beside me in my utter woe, 

Oriana. 
A weary, weary way I go, 

Oriana. 

When Norland winds'pipe down the sea, 
Oriana, 

1 walk, I dare not think of thee, 

Oriana. 
Thou liest beneath the greenwood tree, 
I dare not die and come to thee, 

Oriana. 
I hear the ro.iring of the sea, 

Oriana. 



CIRCUMSTANCE. 

Two children in two neighbor villages 
Playing mad pranks along the healthy leas; 
Two strangers meetiiig at a festival : 
Two lovers whispering by an orchard wall ; 
Two lives bound fast m one with golden ease ; 
Two graves grass-green beside a gray church- 
tower, 
Wash'd with still rams .ind daisy-blossomed ; 
Two children in one hamlet born and bred ; 
So ruus the round of life from hour to hour. 



THE MERMAN. 
I. 
Who would be 
A merman bold. 
Sitting alone. 
Singing alone 
Under the sea. 
With a crown of gold, 
Ou a throne ? 



1 would be a merman bold ; 
I would sit and sing the whole of the day; 
1 would fill the sea-halls with a voice of 

po^ver ; 
lint at night I would roam abroad and play 
With the mermaids in and out of the rocks. 
Dressing their hair with the white sea- 

lloAer ; 
And holding them back by their flowing 

locks 
I would kiss them often under the sea. 
And kiss them again till they kiss'd ine 

Laughingly, laughingly ; 
And then we would wander away, away 
To the pale-green sea-groves straight and 

high, 
Chasing each other merrily. 



There would be neither moon nor star; 
But the wave would make music above us 

afar — 
Low thunder and light in the magic night — 

Neither moon nor star. 
We would ca;l aloud in the dreamy dells. 
Call to each other and whoop and cry 
All night, merrily, merrily ; 
They would pelt me with starry spangles 
and shells, 
Laughing and clapping their hands be- 
tween. 
All night, merrily, merrily : 
But I would throw to them back in mine 
Turkis and agate and almondine : 
Then leaping out upon them unseen 
I would kiss them often under the sea. 
And kiss them again till they kiss'd me 

Laughingly, laughingly. 
Oh ! what a happy life were mine 
Under the hollow-hung ocean green ! 
Soft are the moss-beds under the sea; 
We would live merrily, merrily. 



THE MERMAID. 

I. 
Who would be 
A mermaid fair. 
Singing alone. 
Combing her hair 
Under the sea. 
In a golden curl 
With a comb of pearl. 
On a throne ? 



I would be a mermaid fair : 
I would sing to myself the wliole of the 

day ; 
With a comb of pearl I would comb my 

hair ; 
And still as I comb'd I would sing and 

say, 
" Who is It ioves me ? who loves not me .'" 
I would comb my hair till my ringlets 

would fall. 
Low adowu, low adowii. 



SONNET TO y. M. K.— THE LADY OF SHALOTT. 



From under my starry sea-bud crown 

Low adown and around, 
And I should look like a fountain of gold 
Springing alone 
With a shrill inner sound, 

Over the throne 
In the midst of the hall : 
Till that great sea-snake under the sea 
From his coiled sleeps in the central deeps 
Would slowly trail himself sevenfold 
Round the hall where I sate, and look in at 

the gate 
Witli his large calm eyes for the love of me. 
And all the mermen under the sea 
Would feel their immortality 
Die in their hearts for the love of me. 



But at night I would wander away, away, 
I would fling on each side my low-flowing 
locks. 
And lightly vault from the throne and play 

With the mermen in and out of the rocks ; 

We would run to and fro, and hide and seek. 

On the broad sea-wolds in the crimson 

shells. 
Whose silvery spikes are nighest the sea. 
But if any came near 1 would call, and shriek. 
And adown the steep like a wave I would 
leap 
From the diamond-ledges that jut from the 
dells ; 
For I would not be kiss'd by all who would 

list. 
Of the bold meiTy mermen under the sea ; 
They would sue me, and woo me, and flatter 
me, 



In the purple twilights under the sea ; 
But the king of them all would carry me. 
Woo me, and win me, and marry me. 
In the blanching jaspers under the sea; 
Then all the dry pied things that be 
In the hueless mosses under the sea 
Would curl round my silver feet silently. 
All looking up for the love of me. 
And if 1 should carol aloud, from aloft 
All things that are forked, and horned, and 

"soft 
Would lean out from the hollow sphere of 

the sea. 
All looking down for the love of me. 



SONNET TO J. M. K. 

Mv hope and heart is with thee — thou wilt 

be 
A latter Luther, and a soldier-priest 
To scare church-harpies from the master's 

feast ; 
Our dusted velvets have much need of thee : 
Thou art no sabbath-drawler of old saws, 
Distill'd from some worm-canker'd homily; 
But spurr'd at heart with fieriest energy 
To embattail and to wall about thy cause 
With iron-worded proof, hating to hark 
The humming of the drowsy pulpit-drone 
Half God's good sabbath, while the worn- 
out clerk 
Brow-beats his desk below. Thou from a 

throne 
Mounted in heaven wilt shoot into the dark 
Arrows of lightnings. I will stand and mark. 



POEMS. 

(published 1832.) 

[This division of this volume was published in the winter of 1832. Some of the poems 
have been considerably altered. Others have been added, which, with one exception, were 
written in 1833 ] 



THE LADY OF SHALOTT. 



On either side the river lie 
Long fields of barley and of rye. 
That clothe the wold and meet the sky ; 
And thro' the field the road runs by 

To many-tower'd Camelot ; 
And up and down the people go. 
Gazing where the lilies blow 
Round an island there below, 

The island of Shalott. 

Willows whiten, aspens quiver. 
Little bree7<:s dusk and shiver 



Thro' the wave that runs forever 
By the island in the river 

Flowing down to Camelot. 
Four gray walls, and four gray towers. 
Overlook a space of flowers. 
And the silent isle imbowers 

The Lady of Shalott. 

By the margin, willow-veil'd. 
Slide the heavy barges trail'd 
By slow horses ; and unhail'd 
The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd 

Skimming down to Camelot: 
But who hath seen her wave her hand ? 
Or at the casement seen her stand ? 




' The curse is come upon me,' cried 
The Lady of Shalott." 



THE LADY OF SHALOTT. 



Or ,s she known in all the land. 
The Lady of ShaloU? 

Only reapers, reaping early 
In among the bearded barley. 
Hear a song that echoes cheerly 
From the river winding clearly, 

Down to lower'd Camelot: 
And by the innon th3 reaper weary, 
Piling sheaves in uplands airy, 
: Listening, whispers, " 'T is the fairy 
) Lady of Shalott." 



j Thkre she weaves by nigh; and day 
A magic web with colors gay. 
She has heard a whisper say, 
A curse is on her if she stay 

To look down to Camelot. 
She knows not what the curse may be, 
And so she weaveth steadily. 
And little other care hath she, 

The Lady of Shalott. 



And moving thro' a mirror clear 
That hangs before her all the year, 
Shadows of the world appear. 
There she sees the highway near 

Winding down to Camelot : 
There the river eddy whirls. 
And there the surly village-churls, 
And the red cloaks of market girls, 

Pass onward from Shalott. 

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, 
An abbot on an ambling pad. 
Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad. 
Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad. 

Goes by to tower'd Camelot ; 
And sometimes thro' the mirror blue 
The knights come riding two and two : 
She hath no loyal knight and true, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

But in her web she still delights 
To weave the mirror's inagic sights, 
For often thro' the silent nights 
A funeral, with plumes and lights. 

And music, went to Camelot: 
Or when the moon was overhead, 
Came two young lovers lately wed ; 
" I am half-sick of shadows," said 

The Lady of Shalott. 

PART III. 

A BOW-SHOT from her bower-eaves, 
He rode between the barley-sheaves. 
The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves. 
And flamed upon the brazen greaves 

Of bold .Sir Lancelot. 
A redcross knight forever kneeled 
To a lady in his shield. 
That sparkled on the yellow field, 

Beside remote Shalott. 

The gemmy bridle gl!t;cr'd free, 
Like to some branch of stars we see 



Hung in the golden Galaxy. 
The bridle bells rang merrily 

As he rode down to Camelot : 
And from his blazon'd baldric slung 
A mighty silver bugle hung, 
And as he rode his armor rung. 

Beside remote Shalott. 

All in the blue unclouded weather 
Tliick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather. 
The helmet and the helmet-feather 
Burned like one burning flame together. 

As he rode down to Camelot. 
As often thro' the purple night, 
Below the starry clusters bright, 
Some bearded meteor, trailing light. 

Moves over still Shalott. 

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd : 
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode ; 
From underneath his helmet flow'd 
His coal-black curls as on he rode, 

As he rode down to Camelot. 
From the bank and from the river 
He flash'd into the crystal mirror, 
" Tirra lirra," by the river 

Sang Sir Lancelot. 

She left the web, she left the loom. 
She made three paces thro' the room. 
She saw the water-lily bloom. 
She saw the helmet and the plume. 

She look'd down to Camelot. 
Out flew the web and floated wide ; 
The min'or crack'd from side to sFde ; 
"The curse is come upon me," cried 

The Lady of Shalott. 

PART IV. 

In the stormy east-wind straining. 
The pale yellow woods were waning. 
The broad stream in his banks complainingi 
Heavily the low sky raining 

Over tower'd Camelot ; 
Down she came and found a boat 
Beneath a willow left afloat, 
And round about the prow she wrote 

7'ke Lady of Shalott. 

And down the river's dim expanse — 
Like some bold seer in a trance. 
Seeing all his own mischance — 
With a glassy countenance 

Did she look to Camelot. 
And at the closing of the day 
She loosed the chain, and down she lay; 
The broad stream bore her far away, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Lying, robed in snowy white 
That loosely flew to left and right- 
The leaves upon her falling light — 
Thro' the noises of the night 

She floated down to Camelot : 
And as the boat-head wound along 
The willowv hills and fields among. 
They heard her singing her last song, 

The Lady of Shalott. 



«4 



MARIANA IN THE SOUTH. 



Heard a carol, mournful, holy, 
.Chanted loudly, chanted lowly 
Till her blood was frozen slowly, 
And her eyes were darken'd wholly, 

Turn'd to lower'd Canielot ; 
For ere she reach'd upon the tide 
The first house by the water-side, 
Singing in her song she died, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Under tower and balcony. 

By garden-wall and gallery, 

A gleaming shape she floated by, 

A corse between the houses high. 

Silent into Canielot. 
Out upon the wharis they came, 
Knight and burgher, lord and dame. 
And round the prow they read her name, 

I he Lady of Shaloit. 

Who is this ? and what is here? 
And in the lighted palace near 
Died tlie sound of royal cheer : 
And they oross'd themselves for fear. 

All the knights at Canielot: 
But Lancelot mused a little space : 
He said, " She has a lovely face : 
God in his mercy lend hergrace, 

The Lady of Shalott." 



MARIANA IN THE SOUTH. 

With one black shadow at its feet. 

The house thro' all the level shines. 
Close-latticed to the brooding heat, 

And silent in its dusty vines : 
A faint-blue ridge upon the right. 
An empty river-bed before, 
And shallows on a distant shore. 
In glaring sand and inlets bright. 

But " Ave Mary," made she moan. 

And " Ave Mary," night and morn. 

And " Ah," she sang. " to be all alone. 

To live forgotten, and love forlorn." 

She, as her carol sadder grew, 

From brow and bosom slowly down 
Thro' rosy taper fingers drew 

Her streaming curls o<' deepest brown 
To left and right, and made appear. 
Still-lighted in a secret shrine. 
Her melancholy eves divine, 
The home of woe without a tear 

And " Ave Mary," was her moan, 

" Madonna, sad is night and morn " ; 
And " Ah," she sang, " to be all alone. 
To live forgotten, and love forlorn." 

Till all the crimson changed, and past 

Into deep orange o'er the sea. 
Low on her knees herself she cast. 
Before Our Ladv murmur'd she ; 
Complaining, " Mother, give me grace 
To help me of my weary load." 
And nn the liquid mirror glow'd 
The clear perfection of her face. 

" Is this the form," she made her moan, 
" That won his praises night and 
morn ? " 



And " Ah," siiesaid, "but I wake alone, 
I sleep forgotten, i wake forlorn." 

Nor bird would sing, nor lamb would bleat. 

Nor any cloud would cross the vault. 
But day increased from heat to lieat. 

On stony drought and steamin,g salt; 
Till now at noon she slept again, 

And seem'd knee-deep in mountain grass, 
And heard her native breezes pass. 
And runlets babbling down the glen. 

She breathed in sleep a lower moan,. 

And murmuring, as at night and mom, 
She thought, "My spirit is here alone. 
Walks forgotten, and is forlorn." 

Dreaming, she knew it was a dream : 
She felt he was and was not there. 
She woke : the babble of the stream 
P'ell, and without the steady glare 
Shrank one sick willow sere and small. 
The river-bed was dusty-white ; 
And all the furnace of the light 
Struck up against the blinding wall. 
She whisper'd, with a stifled moan 

More inward than at night or mom, 
"Sweet Mother, let me not here alone 
Live forgotten and die forlorn." 

And, rising, from her bosom drew 

Old letters breathing of her worth. 
For " Love," they said," must needs be true. 

To what is loveliest upon earth." 
An image seem'd to pass the door. 
To look at her with slight, and say, 
" But now thy beauty flows away, 
So be alone foreverniore." 

"O cruel heart," she changed her tone, 
" And cruel love, whose end is scorn. 
Is this the end to be left alone, 
To live forgotten, and die forlorn 1" 

But sometimes in the falling day 

An image seem'd to pass the door. 
To look into her eyes and say, 

" But thou shall be alone no more." 
And flaming downward over all 

From heat to heat the day decreased. 
And slowly rounded to the east 
The one black shadow from the wall. 

" The day to night," she made hermoan, 
"The day to night, the night to mom. 
And day and night 1 am left alone 
To live forgotten, and love forlorn." 

At eve a dry cicala sung. 

There came a sound as of the sea; 
Backward the lattice-blind she flung, 

And lean'd upon the balcony. 
There all in spaces rosy-bright 

Large Hesper glitter'd on her tears. 
And deepening through the silent spheres. 
Heaven over Heaven rose the night. 

And weeping then she made her moan, 
" The night comes on that knows not 
morn. 
When I shall cease to be all alone, 
'I'o live forgotten, and love forlorn." 



BLEANORE. 



15 



ELEANORE. 



Thy dark eyes oneii'd not. 

Nor first reveal'd iliemselves to English air, 

For tliere is notliinj; here. 
Which, from the outward to the inward 

brought, 
Moulded thy baby thought. 
Far off from human neighborhood. 

Thou wert born, on a summer mom, 
A mile beneath the cedar-wood. 
Thy bounteous forehead was not fann'd 

With breezes from our oaken glades. 
But thou wert nursed in some delicious land 

Of lavish lights, and floating shades : 
And flattering thy childish thought 

The oriental fairy brought. 
At the moment of thy birth, 
From old well-heads of haunted rills. 
And the hearts of purple hills. 

And shadow'd coves on a sunny shore, 
The choicest wealth of all the earth, 

Jewel or shell, or starry ore. 

To deck thy cradle, Eleanore. 



Or the yellow-banded bees. 
Thro' half-open lattices 
Coming in the scented breeze. 

Fed thee, a child, lying alone. 

With whitest honey in fairy gardens 
cull'd — 
A glorious child, dreaming alone, 
In silk-soft folds, upoji yielding down. 
With the hum of swarming bees 

Into dreamful slumber lull'd. 



Who may minister to thee? 

Summer herself should minister 

To thee, with fruitage golden-rinded 
On golden salvers, or it may be, 

Youngest Autumn, in a bower 

Grape-thicken'd from the light, and blinded 
With many a deep-hued bell-like flower 

Of fragrant trailers, when the air 
Sleepeth over all the heaven, 
And the crag that fronts the Even, 
All along the shadowing shore, 

Crimsons over an inland mere, 
Eleanore ! 



How may full-sail'd verse express. 
How may measured words adore 
The full-flowing harmony 
Of thy swan-like stateliness, 
Eleanore ? 
The luxuriant symmetry 
Of thy floating gracefulness, 
Eleanore? 
Every turn and glance of thine, 
Every lineament divine, 

Eleanore, 
And the steady sunset glow. 
That stays upon thee ? For iu thee 



Is nothing sudden, nothing single : 
Like two streams of incense free 

From one censer, in one shrine, | 
Thought and motion mingle. 
Mingle ever. Motions flow 
To one another, even as tho' 
They were modulated so 
To an unheard melody. 
Which lives about thee, and a sweep 

Of richest pauses, evermore 
Drawn from each other mellow-deep; 
Who may express thee, Eleanore? 



I stand before thee, Eleanore ; 

_ I see thy beauty gradually unfold, 
Daily and hourly,* more and more. 
I muse, as in a trance, the while 

Slowly, as from a cloud of gold, 
Comes out thy deep ambrosial smile. • 
1 muse, as in a trance, whene'er 

The languors of thy love-deep eyes 
Float on to me. I would 1 were 

So tranced, so rapt in ecstasies, 
To stand apart, and to adire, 
Gazing on thee f(jreverniore, 
Serene, imperial Eleanore ! 

6. 

Sometimes, with most intensity 

Gazing, I seem to see 

Thought folded ov6r thought, smiling asleep. 

Slowly awaken'd, grow so full and deep 

In thy large eyes, that, overpower'd quae, 

I cannot veil, or droop my sight. 

But am as nothing in its light : 

As tho' a star, in inmost heaven set, 

Ev'n while we gaze on it, 

Should slowly round his orb, and slowly 

grow 
To a full face, there like a sun remain 
Fix'd — then as slowly fade again, 

And draw itself to what it was before; 
So full, so deep, so slow. 
Thought seems to come and go 

In thy large eyes, imperial Eleanore. 



As thunder-clouds th ',t, hung on high, 

Ruof'd the world with doubt and fear. 
Floating thro' an evening aimosphere, 
Gro>v golden all about the sky; 
In thee all passion becomes passionless, 
Touch'd by thy spirii's mellowness. 
Losing his fire and ac ive might 

In a silent meditation. 
Falling into a still deiight. 

And luxury of contemplation: 
As waves that up a quiet cove 
Rolling slide, and lying still 
Shadow forth the banks at will : 
Or sometimes they swell and move, 
Pressing up against the land. 
With motions of the outer sea : 
And the self-same influence 
Controlleth all the soul and sensa 
Of Passion gazing upon thee. 



j6 



THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 



His bow-string slacken'd, languid Love, 
Leaning his cheek upon his hand, 
r^oops both his wings, regarding thee. 
And so would languish evermore, 
Serene, imperial Eleanore. 



B«*-* when I see thee roam, with tresses un- 

confined, 
V hile the amorous, odorous wind 

jireathes low between the sunset and the 
moon ; 
Or, in a shadowy saloon, 
•^ silken cushions hah reclined; 

1 watch thy grace ; and in its place 
My heart a charmed slumber keeps, 

While I muse upon thy face; 
And a languid fire creeps 

Thro' my veins to all my frame, 
Dissolvingly and slowly : soon 

From thy rose-red lips my name 
Floweih ; and then, as in a swoon, 
With dinning sound my ears are rife, 
My tremulous tongue faltereth, 
1 lose my color, I lose my breath, 
I drink the cup of a costly death, 
irimm'd with delirious draughts of warmest 
life; 
I die with my delight, before 

I hear what I would hear from thee ; 
Yet tell my name again to me, 
I -would be dying evermore. 
So dying ever, Eleanore. 



THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 

I SEE the wealthy miller yet. 

His double chin, his jjortly size, 
'And who tliat knew him could forget 

The busy wrinkles round his eyes? 
The slow wise smile that, round about 

His dusty forehead dryly curl'd, 
Seem'd half-within and half-without. 

And full of dealings with the world? 

In yonder chair I see him sit, 

Three fingers round the old silver cuf - 
I see his gray eyes twinkle yet 

At his own jest — gray eyes lit up 
With summer lightnmgs of a soul 

So full of summer warmth, so glad. 
So healthy, sound, and clear and whole. 

His memory scarce can make me sad. 

Yet fill my glass : give me one kiss : 

My own sweet Alice, we must die. 
There's somewhat in this world amiss 

Shall be unriddled by and by. 
There's somewhat flows to us in )"fe, 

But more is taken quite away. 
Pray, Alice, pray, my darling wife. 

That we may die the self-same day. 

Have I not found a happy earth? 

I least should breathe a thought of pain. 
Would God renew me from my birth 

I 'd almost live my life again 



So sweet it seems with thee to walk. 
And once again to woo thee mine — 

It seems in after-dinner talk 
Across the walnuts and the wine — 

To be the long and listless boy 
Late-left an orphan of the squire. 

Where this old mansion mounted high 
Looks down u| on the village spire : 

For even here, where 1 and you 
^ Have lived and loved alone so long. 

Each morn niy sleep was broken thro' 
By some wild skylark's matin song. 

And oft I heard the tender dove 

In firry woodlands making moan; 
liut ere I saw your ej'es, my love, 

1 had no motion of my own. 
For scarce my life with fancy play'd 

Before \ dream'd that pleasant dream — 
Still hither thither idly sway'd 

Like those long mosses in the stream. 

Or from the bridge I lean'd to hear 

The milldam rushing down with noise, 
And see the minnows everywhere 

In crystal eddies glance and ]ioise, 
The tall flag-flowers when they sprung 

Below the range of stepping-stones, 
Or those three chestnuts near, that hung 

In masses thick with milky cones. 

But, Alice, what an hour was that. 

When after roving in the woods 
('T was April then), I came and sat 

Below the chestnuts, when their buds 
Were glistening to the breezy blue ; 

And on the slope, an absent fool, 
I cast me down, nor thought of you, 

But angled in the higher pool. 

A love-song I had somewhere read, 

An echo from a measured strain, 
Beat time to nothmg in my head 

From some odd corner of the brain. 
It haunted me, the morning long. 

With weary sameness in the rhymes, 
The phantom of a silent song, 

I'hat went and came a thousand times. 

Then leapt a trout. In lazy mood 

I watch'd the little circles die ; 
They past into the level flood. 

And there a vision caught my eye ; 
The reflex of a beauteous form, 

A glowing arm, a gleaming neck. 
As when a sunbeam wavers warm 

Within the dark and dimpled beck. 

For you remember, you had set. 

That morning, on the casement's edge 
A long green box of mignonette, 

And you were leaning from the ledge : 
And when I raised my eyes, above 

They met with two so full and bright — 
Such eyes I I swear to you, my love. 

That these have never lost theiir light. 



THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 



I loved, and love dispell'd the fear 

That I sliould die an early death ; 
For love possess'd the atmosphere, 

And 111) d the breast with purer breath. 
My mother thought. What ails the boy? 

For I was alter'd, and began 
To move about the house with joy. 

And with the certain step of man. 

I loved the brimming wave that swam 

'J'hro' quiet meadows round the mill, 
The sleepy pool above the dam, 

The pool beneath it never still. 
The meal-sacks on the whiten'd floor. 

The dark round of the dripping wheel, 
Tlie very air about the door 

Made misty with the floating meal. 

And oft in ramblings on the wold. 

When April nights began to blow. 
And April's crescent glimmer'd cold, 

I saw the village lights below ; 
I knew your taper far away, 

And full at heart of trembling hope, 
From off the wold I came, and lay 

Upon the freshly-flower'd slope. 

The deep brook groan'd beneath the mill : 

And "by that lamp," I thought, "she 
sits ! " 
The white chnlk-quarry from the hil) 

Gieam'd to the flying moon by fits 

O that 1 were beside her now 1 

O will she answer if I call ? 
O would she give me vow for vow. 

Sweet Alice, if I told her all? " 

Sometimes f saw you sit and spin ; 

And, in the pauses of the wind. 

Sometimes 1 heard yon sing within; 

Sometimes your shadow cross'd the blind. 

] At last you rose and moved the light, 

And the long shadow of the chair 
' Flitted across into the night. 

And all the casement darken'd there. 

I But when at last I dared to speak, 

t J he lanes, you know, were white with May, 
f Your ripe lips moved not, but your cheek 
: Flush'd like the coming of the day; 
And so it was — half-sly, half-shy. 

You would, and would not, little one I 
Although I pleaded tenderly. 
And you and I were all alone. 

And slowly was my mother brought 

To yield consent to my desire : 
She wish'd me happy, but she thought 
^ I might have look'd a little higher ; 
And I was young — too young to wed : 
" Yet must I love her for your sake ; 
;; Go fetch your Alice here," she said : 
J Her eyelid quiver'd as she spake. 

ii And down I went to fetch my bride : 

( iiut, Alice, you were ill at ease ; 

■- This dress and that by turns you tried, 

II loo fearful that you should not please. 



I loved you better for your fears, 
1 knew you could not look but well ; 

And dews, that would have fall'n in tears, 
1 kiss'd away before they fell. 

I watch'd the little flutterings. 

The doubt my mother would not see ; 
She spoke at large of many things. 

And at the last she spoke of me ; 
And turning look'd upon your face. 

As near this door you sat apart. 
And rose, and, with a silent grace 

Approaching, press'd you heart to heart. 

Ah, well — but sing the foolish song 

1 gave you, Alice, on the day 
When, arm in arm, we went along, 

A pensive pair, and you were gay 
With bridal flowers — that 1 may seem, 

As in the nights of old, to lie 
Beside the mill-wheel in the stream, 

While those full chestnuts whisper by. 

It is the miller's daughter, 
And she is grown so dear, so dear, 

That I would be the jewel 
That trembles at her ear : _ 

For hid in ringlets day and night, 

1 'd touch her neck so warm and whita. 

And I would be the girdle 

About her dainty, dainty waist, 

And her heart would beat against me, 
In sorrow and in rest : 

And I should kuow if it beat right, 

1 'd clasp it round so close and light. 

And I would be the necklace. 
And all day long to fall and rise 

Upon her balmy bosom. 

With her laughter or her sighs. 

And I would lie so light, so light, 

1 scarce should be nnclasp'd at night. 



A trifle, sweet ! which true love sj-eils — 

True love interprets — right alone. 
His light upon the letter dwells. 

For all the spirit is his own. 
So, if I waste words now, in truth. 

You must blame Love. His eariy rage 
Had force to make me rhyme in j juth. 

And makes me talk too much in age. 

And now those vivid hours are gone. 

Like mine own life to me thou art. 
Where Past and Present, wound in one, 

Do make a garland for the heart : 
So sing that other song I made, 

Half-anger'd with my happy lot. 
The day, when in the chestnut shade 

I found the blue Forget-me-not. 

Love that hath us in the net. 
Can he pass, and we forget ? 
Many suns arise and set. 
Many a chance the years beget. 
Love the gift is Love the debt. 
Even so. 



FA TIM A. — CENONE. 



Love is luirt with jar and fret. 
Love is made a vague regret 
Eyes with idle tears are wet. 
Idle habit links us yet. 
What is love? for we forget : 
Ah, no ! no ! • 



Look thro' mine eyes with thine. True wife, 

Round niy true heart thine arms entwine ; 
My other dearer life in life. 

Look lliro' niy very soul with thine ! 
Untouch'd with any shade of years, 

May those kind eyes forever dwell 1 
They have not shed a many tears. 

Dear eyes, since first I knew them well. 

Yet tears they shed : they had their part 

Of sorrow : for when time was ripe, 
The still affection of the heart 

Became an outward breathing type, 
That into stillness past again. 

And left a want unknown before ; 
Although the loss that brought us pain. 

That loss but made us love the more, 

tVith farther lookings on. The kiss, 

The woven arms, seem but to be 
Weak symbols of the settled bliss, 

The comfort, 1 have loiind in thee: 
But that God bless thee, dear — who wrought 

Two spirits to one equal mind — 
With blessings beyond hope or thought. 

With blessings which no words can find. 

Arise, and let us wander forth. 

To yon old mill across the wolds ; 
For look, the sunset, south and north, 

Winds all the vale in rosy folds. 
And fires your narrow casement glass, 

Touching the sullen pool below : 
On the chaik-hill the bearded grass 

Is dry and dewless. Let us go. 



FATIMA. 

O Love, Love, Love ! O withering might ! 

sun, that from thy noonday height 
Shuriderest when I strain my sight, 
Throbbing thro' all thy heat and light, 

Lo, falling from my constant mind, 

Lo, parch'd and wither'd, deaf and blind, 

1 whirl like leaves in roaring wind. 

Last night I wasted hateful hours 
Below the city's eastern towers : 
' 1 thirsted for the brooks, the showers : 

1 roll'd among the tender flowers: 

I crush'd them on my breast, my mouth : 
I look'd athwart the burning drouth 
Of that long desert to the south. 

Last night, when some one spoke his name, 
From my swift bifiod that went and came 
A thousand little shalts of flame 
Were shiver'd in my narrow frame. 
^ O Love, O fire 1 once he drew 



With one long kiss my whole soul thro' 
My lips, as sunlight drinketh dew. 

Before he mounts the hill, I know 
He tonieth quickly ; from below 
Sweet gales, as from deep gardens, blow 
Before him, striking on my brow. 
In my dry brain my spirit soon, 
Down-deepening Irom swoon to swoon. 
Faints like a dazzled morning moon. 

The wind .sounds like a silver wire, 
And from beyond the noon a fire 
Is pour'd upon the hills, and nigher 
The skies stoop down in their desire ; 
And, isled in sudden seas of light, 
My heart, pierced thro' with fierce delight, 
Bursts into blossom in his sight. 

My whole soul waiting silently, 

K\\ naked in a sultry sky, 

I iroops blinded with his shining eye : 

I 702?/ possess him or will die. 

I will grow round him in his place. 
Grow, live, die looking on his face, 
Die, dying clasp'd in his embrace. 



OENONE. 

There lies a vale in Ida, lovelier ^ 

Than all the valleys of Ionian hills. 
The swiinming vapor slopes athw art the glen, 
Puts forth an arm, and creeps from pine to 

pine. 
And loiters, slowly drawn. On either hand 
'1 he lawns and meadow-ledges midway down 
Hang rich in flowers, and lar below them 

roars 
The long brook falling thro' the clov'n ravine 
In cataract alter c.ilaract to the sea. 
.Behind the valley topmost Gargarus 
Stands up and takes the morning : but in 

front 
The gorges, opening wide apart, reveal 
Troas and 1 lion's column'd citadel, 
I'he crown of Troas. 

Hither came at noon 
Monrnfid CEnone, wandering forlorn 
Of Paris, once her playmate on the hills. 
Her cheek had lost the rose, and round Iter 

neck 
Floated her hair or seem'd to float in rest. 
She, leaning on a fragment twined with vine, 
Sang to the stillness, till the mountain-shade 
Sloped downward to her seat from the upper 

cliff. 

" O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, 
Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
For now the noonday quiet holds the hill : 
The grasshopper is silent in the grass ; 
The lizard, with his shadow on the stone. 
Rests like a shadow, and the cicala sleeps. 
The purple flowers droop : the golden bee 
Is Jily-cradled ; I alone awake. 
My eyes are full of tears, my heart of love, 



CENONE. 



My heart is breaking, and my eyes are dim, 
A. id I am ail aweary of my life. 

"O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, 
Dear mother Ida, hearken ere 1 die. 
Hc.-.r ine O Earth, hear me O Hills, O Caves 
That liouse the cold crown'd snake ! O moun- 
tain brooks, 
I am the daughter of a River-God, 
Hea/ me, for I will speak, and buiid up all 
Myi orrow with my song, as yonder walls 
Rose slowly to a music slowly breathed, 
A cloud that gather'd shape : for it may be 
That, while I speak of it, a little while 
My heart may wander from its deeper woe. 

"O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, 
Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
1 waited underneath the dawning hills, 
Alott the mountain l.iwn was dewy-dark, 
A. id dewy-dark aloft the mountain piuc : 
B-;autiful Paris, evil-hearted Paris, 
Leading a jet-black goat white-horn'd, white- 

hooved, 
Came up from reedy Simois all alone. 

"O mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
Far-off the torrent ca I'd me from the cleft : 
Far up the solitary morning smote 
The streaks of virgin snow. With down- 

dropt eyes 
I sat alone : white-breasted like a star 
Fronting the dawn lie moved ; a leopard skin 
Droop'd from his shoulder, but his sunny 

hair 
Cluster'd about his temples like a God's : 
And his cheek brighteu'd as the foam-bow 

brightens 
When the wind blows the foam, and all my 

heart 
Went forth to embrace him coming ere he 

came. 

■' Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
He smiled, and opening out his milk-white 

palm 
Disclosed a fruit of pure Hesperian gold. 
That smelt ambrosially, and while I look'd 
And listeu'd, the full-flowing river of speech 
Came down upon my heart. 

" ' My own CEnone, 
Beautiful-brow'd Qinone, my own soul. 
Behold this fruit, whose gleaming rind en- 

grav'n 
" For the most fair," would seem to award it 

thine. 
As lovelier than whatever Oread haunt 
The knolls of Ida, loveliest in all grace 
Of movement, and the charm of married 

brows.' 

" Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
He prest the blossom of his lips to mine. 
And added, ' This was cast upon the board. 
When all the full-faced presence of the Gods 
Ranged in the halls of Peleus ; whereupon 
Rose feud, with question unto whom 't were 
due : 



But light-foot Iris brought it yester-eve. 
Delivering, that to me, by common voice 
Elected umpire. Here comes to-day, 
Pallas and Aphrodite, claiming each 
This meed of fairest. Thou, within the cave 
Behind yon whispering tutt of oldest pine, 
Mayst well behold them unbeheld, unheard 
Hear all, and see thy Pans judge of Gods.' 

" Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
It wa.; the deep midnoon : one silvery cloud 
Had lost his way between the piny sides 
Of this long glen. Then to the bower they 

came, 
Naked they came to that smooth-swarded 

bower, 
And at their feet the crocus brake like fire, 
Violet, aniaracus, and asphodel. 
Lotos and lilies : and a wind arose. 
And overhead the wandering ivy and vine, 
This way and that, in many a wild festoon 
Kan riot, garlanding the gnarled boughs 
With bunch and berry ar.d tlower thro' and 

thro'. 

" O mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
On the tree-tops a crested peacock lit. 
And o'er him flow'd a golden cloud, and 

lean'd 
Upon him, slowly dropping fragrant dew. 
Then hrst I heard the voice of her, to whom 
Coming thro' Heaven, like a light that rrows 
Larger and clearer, with one mind the Gods 
Rise up for reverence. .She to Paris made 
Proffer of royal power, ample rule 
Unquestion'd, overflowing revenue 
Wherewith to embellish state, 'from many a 

vale 
And river-sunder'd champaign clothed with 

corn, 
Or labor'd mines undrainable of ore. 
Honor,' she s:iid, 'and homage, tax and toll. 
From many an inland town and haven large, 
Mast-throng'd beneath her shadowing citadel 
In glassy bays among her tallest towers.' 

" O mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
.Still she spake on and still she spake oi 

power, 
' Which in all action is the end of all ; 
Power fitted to the season ; wisdom-bred 
And throned of wisdom — from all neighbo) 

crowns 
Alliance and allegiance, till thy hand 
Fail from the sceptre-staff. Such boon from 

me. 
From me, Heaven's Queen, Paris, to the* 

king- born, 
A shepherd all thy life but yet king-born. 
Should come most welcome, seeing men, in 

power 
Only, are likest gods, who have attain'd 
Rest in a happy place and quiet seats 
Above the thunder, with undying bliss 
In knowledge of their own supremacy.' 

" Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
She ceased, and Paris held the costly iruit 



CENONE. 



Out at arm's-length, so much the thought of 

power 
Flatter'd his spirit ; but Pallas wliere she 

stood 
Somewhat apart, her clear and bared limbs 
O'erthwarted with the brazen-headed spear 
Upon her pearly shoulder leaning cold. 
The while, above, her full and earnest eye 
Over her snow-cold breast and angry cheek 
Kept watch, waiting decision, made reply. 

"' Self- reverence, self-knowledge, self- 
control, 
These three alone lead life to sovereign 

power. 
Vet not for power, (power of herself 
Would come uncall'd for) but to live by law, 
Acting the law we live by without fear ; 
And, because right is right, to follow right 
Were wisdom in the scorn of consequence.' 

" Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
Again she said : ' I woo thee not with gifts. 
Sequel of guerdon could not alter me 
I'o fairer. Judge thou me by what I am. 
So shalt thou find me fairest. 

Yet, indeed. 
If gazing on divinity disrobed 
Thy mortal eyes are frail to judge of fair, 
Unbiass'd by self-profit, oh ! rest thee sure 
That I shall love thee well and cleave to 

thee. 
So that my vigor, wedded to thy blood. 
Shall strike within thy pulses, like a God's, 
To push thee forward thro' a life of shocks. 
Dangers, and deeds, until endurance grow 
Sinew'd with action, and the full-grown will, 
Circled thro' all experiences, pure law, 
Commeasure perfect freedom.' 

" Here she ceased, 
And Paris ponder'd, and I cried, ' O Paris, 
Give it to Pallas ! ' but he heard me not, 
Or hearing would not hear me, woe is me ! 

" O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, 
Dear motlier Ida, hearken ere I die. 
Idalian Aphrodite beautifid, 
Fresh as the foam, new-bathed in Paphian 

wells, 
With rosy slender fingers backward drew 
From her warm brows and bosom her deep 

hair 
Ambrosial, golden round her lucid throat 
And shoulder : from the violets her light foot 
Shone rosy-white, and o'er her rounded form 
Between the shadows of the vine-bunches 
Floated the glowing sunlights, as she moved. 

" Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
She with a subtle smile in her mild eyes. 
The herald of her triumph, drawing nigh 
Half-whisper'd in his ear, ' I promise thee 
Tile fairest and most loving wife in Greece.' 
She spoke and laugh'd : I shut my sight for 

fear: 
But when I look'd, Paris had raised his ann. 



And I beheio great- Herd's angry eyes, 
As she withdrew into the golden cloud, 
And 1 was left alone within the bower; 
And from that time to this I am alone, 
And I shall be alone until I die. 

"Yet, mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
Fairest — why fairest wife? am I not fair? 
My love hath told me so a thousand times. 
Methinks 1 must be fair, for yesterday. 
When I passed by, a wild and wanton pard, 
Eyed like the evening star, with playful tail 
Crouch'd fawning in the weed. Most loving 

is she? 
Ah me, my mountain shepherd, that my arms 
Were wound about thee, and my hot lijis prest 
Close, close to thine in that quick-falling dew 
Of fruitful kisses, thick as Autumn rains 
Flash in the pools of whirling Simois. 

" O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
They came, they cut away my tallest pines. 
My dark tall pines, that plumed the craggy 

ledge 
High over the blue gorge, and all between 
The snowy peak and snow-white cataract 
Foster'd the -callow eaglet — from beneath 
Whose thick mysterious bows in the dark 

morn 
The panther's roar came muffled, while I sat 
Low in the valley. Never, never more 
Shall lone CEnone see the morning mist 
Sweep thro' them ; never see them overlaid 
With narrow moon-lit slips of silver cloud, 
Between the loud stream and the trembling 

stars. 

" O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
I wi>h that somewhere in the ruin'd folds. 
Among the fragments tumbled fnm the glens, 
Or the dry thickets, I could meet with her, 
The Abominable, that uninvited came 
Into the fair Peleian banquet-hall. 
And cast the golden fruit upon the board. 
And bred this change ; that I might speak 

my mind. 
And tell her to her face how much I hate 
Her presence, hated both of Gods and men. 

" O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
Hath he not sworn his love a thousand times. 
In this green valley, under this green hill, 
Ev'n on this hand, and sitting on this stone ? 
Seal'd it with kisses? water'd it with tears? 
O happy tears, and how unlike to these ! 
O liappy Heaven, how canst thou see my 

face ? 
O happy earth, how canst thou bear my 

weight ? 

death, death, death, thou ever-floating 

cloud, 
There are enough unhappy on this earth. 
Pass by the happy souls, that love to live : 

1 jiray thee, pass before my light of life, 
And shadow all my soul, that 1 may die. 
Thou weighest heavy on the heart within, 
Weigh heavy ou my eyeUds : let me die. 



THE SISTERS.— TO 

" O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
/will not die alone, for fiery thoughts 
Do shape themselves within me, more and 

more, 
Whereof I catch the issue, as I hear 
Dead sounds at night come from the inmost 

hills. 
Like footsteps upon wool. I dimly see 
My far-off doubtful purpose, as a mother 
Conjectures of the fca' ires of her child 
Ere it is born : her child ! — a shudder comes 
Across me : never child be born of me, 
Unblest, to vex me with his father's eyes 1 

" O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
Hear me, O earth. I will not die alone. 
Lest their shrill happy laughter come to me 
Walking the cold and starless road of Death 
Uncomforted, leaving my ancient love 
With the Greek woman. I will rise and go 
Down into Troy, and ere the stars come forth 
Talk with the wild Cassandra, for she says 
A fire dances before her, and a sound 
Rings ever in her ears of armed men. 
What this maybe I know not, but I know 
That, wheresoe'er I am by night and day. 
All earth and air seem only burning fire. 



THE SISTERS. 

We were two daughters of one race : 
She was the fairest in the face : 

The wind is blowing in turret and tree. 
They were together, and she fell ; 
Therefore revenge became me well. 

O the Earl was fair to see 1 

She died : she went to burning flame : 
She mix'd her ancient blood with shame. 

The wind is howling in turret and tree. 
Whole weeks and months, and early and late. 
To win his love I lay in wait : 

O the Earl was fair to see ! 

I made a feast ; I bade him come ; 
I won his love, I brought him home. 

The wind is roaring in turret and tree. 
And after supper, on abed. 
Upon my lap he laid his head : 

O the Earl was fair to see ! 

I kiss'd his eyelids into rest : 
His ruddy cheek upon my breast. 

The wind is raging in turret and tree. 
I hated him with the hate of hell. 
But I loved his beauty passing well. 

O the Earl was fair to see ! 

I rose up in the silent night : 

I made my dagger sharp and bright. 

The wind is raving in turret and tree. 
As half-asleep his breath he drew. 
Three times I stabb'd him thro' and thro'. 

O the Earl was fair to see ! 

! curl'd and comb'd his comely head, 
He look'd so grand when he was dead. 



-THE PALACE OF ART. 

The wind is blowing in turret and tree. 
1 wrapt his body in the sheet. 
And laid him at his mother's feet. 

O the Earl was fair to see ! 



TO . 

WITH THE FOLLOWING POEM. 

I SEND you here a sort of allegory, 

(For you will understand it) of a soul, 

A sinful soul possess'd of many gifts, 

A spacious garden full of flowering weeds, 

A glorious Devil, large in heart and brain, 

That did love Beauty only, (Beauty seen 

In all varieties of mould and mind,) 

And Knowledge for its beauty ; or if Good, 

Good only for its beauty, seeing not 

That Beauty, Good, and Knowledge are three 

sisters 
That doat upon each other, friends to man, 
Living together under the same roof. 
And never can besunder'd without tears. 
And he that shuts Love out, in turn shall be 
Shut out from Love, and on her threshold lie 
Howling in outer darkness. Not for this 
Was common clay ta'en from the common 

earth. 
Moulded by God, and temper'd with the 

tears 
Of angels to the perfect shape of man. 



THE PALACE OF ART. 

I nuiLT my soul a lordly pleasure-house, 

Wherein at ease for aye to dweM. 
I said, "O Soul, make merry and carouse, 
Dear soul, for all is well." 

A huge crag-platform, smooth as burnish'd 
brass, 
I chose. The ranged ramparts bright 
From level meadow-bases of deep grass 
Suddenly scaled the light. 

Thereon t built it.firm. Of ledge or shelf 
The rock rose clear, or winding stair. 
My soul would live alone unto herself 
In her high palace there. 

And "while the world runs round and 
round," I said, 
" Reign thou apart, a quiet king. 
Still as, while Saturn whirls, his steadfast 
shade 
Sleeps on his luminous ring." 

To which my soul made answer readily : 

"Trust me, in bliss I shall abide 
In this great mansion, that is built for me, 
So roval-rich and wide." 



THE PALACE OF ART. 



Four courts I made, East, West and South 
and North, 
In each a squared lawn, whercfroin 
The golden gorge of dragons spouted forth 
A flood of fountain-foam. 

And round the cool green courts there ran a 
row 
Of cloisters, branch'd like mighty woods. 
Echoing all night to that sonorous flow 
Of spouted fountain-floods. 

And round the roofs a gilded gallery 

That lent broad verge to distant lands, 
Far as the wild swan wings, to where tlie 
sky 
Dipt down to sea and sands. 

From those four jets four currents in one 
swell 
Across the mountain stream'd below 
In misty folds, that floating as they fell 
Lit up a torrent-bow. 

And high on every peak a statue seem'd 

To hang on tiptoe, tossing up 
A cloud of incense of all odor steam'd 
From out a golden cup. 

So that she thought, " And who shall gaze 
upon 
My palace with unblinded eyes. 
While this great bow will waver in the sun, 
And that sweet incense rise ? " 

For that sweet incense rose and never fail'd, 

And, while day sank or mounted higher, 
The light aerial gallery, golden-rail'd, 
Burnt like a fringe of fire. 

Likewise the deep-set windows, stain'd and 
traced, 
Would seem slow-flaming crimson fires 
From shadow'd grots of arches interlaced, 
And lipt with frost-like spires. 



Full of long-sounding corridors it was, 

That over-vaulted grateful gloom. 
Thro' which the livelong day my soul did 
pass, 
Well-pleased, from room to room. 

Full of great rooms and small the palace 
stood. 
All various, each a perfect whole 
From living Nature, fit for every mood 
And change of my still soul. 

For some were hung with arras green and 
blue. 
Showing a gaudy summer-morn, 
Where with puff'd cheek the belted hunter 
blew 
liis wreathed bugle-horn. 



One seem'd all dark and red, — a tract ot 
sand. 
And some one pacing there alone, 
Who paced forever in a glimmering land, 
Lit with a low large moon. 

One show'd an iron coast and angry waves. 

You seem'd to hear them climb and fall 
And roar rock-thwarted under bellowing 
caves, 
Beneath the windy wall. 

And one, a full-fed river winding slow 

By herds upon an endless plain. 
The ragged rims of thunder brooding low, 
With shadow-streaks of rain. 

And one, the reapers at their sultry toil, 

In front they bound the sheaves. Behind 
Were realms of upland, prodigal in oil, 
And hoary to tlie wind. 

And one, a foreground black with stones and 
slags, 
Beyond, a line of heights, and higher 
All barr'd with long white cloud the scornful 
crags, 
And highest, snow and fire. 

And one, an English home, — gray twilight 
pour'd 
On dewy pastures, dewy trees. 
Softer than sleep, — all things in order stored, 
A haunt of ancient Peace. 

Nor these alone, but every landscape fair. 

As fit for every mood of mind. 
Or gay, or grave, or sweet, or stern, was there, 
Not less than truth design'd 



Or the maid mother by a crucifix. 

In tracts of (lasture sunny-warm. 
Beneath branch-work of costly sardonyx 
Sat smiling, babe in arm. 

Or in a clear-wall'd city on the sea. 
Near gilded organ-pipes, her hair 
Wound willi white roses, slept St. Cecily; 
An angel looked at her. 

Or thronging all one porch of Paradise, 

A group of Houris bow'd to see 
The dying Islamite, with hands and eyes 
That said, We wait for thee. 

Or mythic Uther's deeply-wounded son 
In some fair space of sloping greens 
Lay, dozing in the vale of Avalon, 
And watch'd by weeping queens. 

Or hollowing one hand against his ear. 

To list a footfall, ere he saw 
The wood-nymph, stay'd the Ausonian king 
to hear 
Of wisdom and of law. 



THE PALACE OF ART. 



23 



Or over hills with peaky tops engrail'd, 

And many a tract of palm and rice, 
The throne of Indian Cama slowly sail'd 
A summer fann'd with spice. 

Or sweet Europa's mantle blew unclasp'd, 
From off her shoulder backward/borne : 
From one hand droop'd a crocus:' one hand 
grasp'd 
The mild bull's golden horn. 

Or else flushed Ganymede, his rosy thigh 

Half-buried in the Eagle's down. 
Sole as a Hying star shot thro' the sky 
Above the pillar'd town. 

Nor these alone : but every legend fair 
Which the supreme Caucasian mind 
Carved out of Nature for itself, was there, 
Not less than life, design'd. 



Then in the towers I placed great bells that 
swung, 
Moved of themselves, with silver sound ; 
And with choice paintings of wise men I 
hung 
The royal dais round. 

For there was Milton like a seraph strong. 
Beside him Shakespeare bland and mild ; 
And there the world-worn Dante grasp'd his 
song. 
And somewhat grimly smiled. 

And there the Ionian father of the rest ; 

A million wrinkles carved his skin ; 
A hundred winters snow'd upon his breast, 
From cheek and throat and chin. 

Above, tlie fair hall-ceiling stately-set 

Many an arch high up did lilt, 
And angels rising and descending met 
With interchange of gift. 

Below was all mosaic choicely plann'd 

With cycles of the human tale 
Of this wide world, the times of every land 
So wrought, they will not fail. 

The people here, a beast of burden slow, 
Toil'd onward, prick'd with goads and 
stings ; 
Here play'd, a tiger, rolling to and fro 
The heads and crowns of kings ; 

Here rose an athlete, strong to break or bind 

All force in bonds that might endure. 
And here once more like some sick man de- 
clin'd. 
And trusted any cure. 

But over these she trod : and those great bells 

Began to chime. She took her throne : 
She sat betwixt the shining Oriels, 
To sing her songs alone. 



And thro' the topmost Oriels' color'd flame 

Two godlike faces gazed below ; 
Plato the wise, and large-brow'd Verulam, 
The first of those who know. 

And all those names, that in their motion were 

Full-welling fountaiu-head« of change. 
Betwixt the slender shafts were blazon'd fair 
In diverse raiment strange : • 

Thro' which the lights, rose, amber, emerald, 
blue, 
Flush'd in her temples and her eyes, 
And from her lips, as morn from Meranon, 
drew 
Rivers of melodies. 

No nightingale delighteth to prolong 

Her low preamble all alone, 
More than my soul to hear her echo'd song 
Throb thro' the ribbed stone ; 

Singing and murmuring in her feastful mirth, 

Joying to feel herself alive. 
Lord over Nature, Lord of the visible earth, 
Lord of the senses five ; 

Communing with herself: " All these are 
mine, 
And let the world have peace or wars, 
'T is one to me." She — when young night 
divine 
Crown'd dying day with stars. 

Making sweet close of his delicious toils- 
Lit light in wreaths and anadems. 
And pure quintessences of precious oils 
In hoUow'd moons of gems, 

To mimic heaven ; and clapt her hands and 
cried, 
" I marvel if my still delight 
In this great house so royal-rich, and wide, 
Be flatter'd to the height. 

" O all things fair to sate my various eyes ! 

shapes and hues that please me well ! 
O silent faces of the Great and Wise, 

My Gods, with whom I dwell ! 

" O God-like isolation which art mine, 

1 can but count thee perfect gain, 

What time I watch the darkening droves of 
swine 
That range on yonder plain. 

" In filthy sloughs they roll a prurient skin. 
They graze and wallow,breed and sleep; 
And oft some brainless devil enters in, 
And drives them to the deep." 

Then of the moral instinct would'she prate. 

And of the rising from the dead. 
As hers by right of full-accomplish'd Fate ; 
And at the last she said : 

" I take possession of man's mind and deed 
1 care not what the sects may brawl. 



I sit as God holding no form of creed, 
But toiiteinplating all." 



Full oft the ricl(<(e of the painful earth 

F'lash'd thro' her as she sat ^oiie, 
Yet not the less held she her solemn mirth, 
And intellectual throne. 

And so she throve and prosper'd : so three 
years 
She prosper'd : on the fourth she fell, 
Like Herod, when the shout was in his ears, 
Struck thro' with pangs of hell. 

Lest she should fail and perish utterly, 

God, before whom ever lie bare 

The abysmal deeps of Personality, 

Plagued her with sore despair. 

When she would think, where'er she turn'd 
her sight. 
The airy hand confusion wrought. 
Wrote " Mene, mene," and divided quite 
The kingdom of her thought. 

Deep dread and loathing of her solitude 

Fell on her, from which mood was born 
Scorn of herself ; again, from out that mood 
Laughter at her self-scorn. 

"What! is not this my place of strength," 
she said, 
" My spacious mansion built for me. 
Whereof the strong foundation-stones were 
laid 
Since my first meinory?" 

But in dark corners of her palace stood 

Uncertain .shapes ; and unawares 
On white-eyed phantasms weeping tears of 
blood. 
And horrible nightmares. 

And hollow shades enclosing hearts of flame. 

And, with dim fretted foreheads all. 
On corpses three-months old at noon she 
came. 
That stood against the wall. 

A spot of dull stagnation, without light 

Or power of movement, seem'd my soul, 
'Mid onward-sloping motions infinite 
Making for one sure goal. 

A still salt pool, lock'd in with bars of .sand ; 

Left on the shore ; that hears all night 
The plunging seas draw backward from the 
land 
Their moon-led waters white. 

A star that with the choral starry dance 

Join'd not, but stood, and standing saw 
The hollow orb of moving Circumstance 
Roll'd round by one fix'd law. 



LADY CLARA VERB DE VERE. 

Back 



'ack on herself her serpent pride had curl'd, 
" No voice, "she shriek'd in that lone hall, 
" No voice breaks thro' tlie stillness of this 
world : 
One deep, deep silence all ! " 

She, mouldering with the dull earth's mould' 
ering sod, 
Inwrapt tenfold in slothful shame. 
Lay there exiled from eternal God, 
Lost to her place and name ; 

And death and life she hated equally, 

And nothing saw, for her despair. 
But dreadful time, dreadful eternity. 
No comfort anywhere ; 

Remaining utterly confused with fears, 

And ever worse with growing time. 
And ever unrelieved by dismal tears, 
And all alone in crime : 

Shut up as in a crumbling tomb, girt round 

With blackness as a solid wall, 
Far off she seem'd to hear the dully sound 
Of human footsteps fall. 

As in strange lands a traveller walking slow, 

In doubt and great perplexity, 
A little before moon-rise hears the low 
Moan of an unknown sea ; 

And knows not if i'. be thurder or a sound 
Of rocks thrown down, or one deep cry 
Of great wild beasts ; then thinketh, " I have 
found 
A new land, but I die." 

She howl'd aloud, " I am on fire within. 

There comes no murmur of reply. 

What is it that will take away my sin, 

And save me lest I die?" 

So when four years were wholly finished. 

She threw her royal robes away, 
" Make nie a cottage in the vale," she said, 
" Where I may mourn and pray. 

"Yet pull not down mypalace towers, that are 

So lightly, beautifully built : 
Perchance I may return with others there 
When I have purged ray guilt." 



LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE- 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

Of me you shall not win renown : 
You thought to break a country heart 

For |)astime, ere you went to town. 
At me you smiled, but ujibeguiled 

I saw the snare, and I retired : 
The daughter of a hundred Pearls, 

You are not one to be desired. 

Lady Clara Ve'e de Vere, 

1 know you proud to bear you' name. 




The daughter of a hundred Earls 
You are not one to be desired.' 



THE MA Y QUEEN. 



25 



Your pride is yet no mate for mine, 

Too proud to care from whence I came. 

Nor would I break for your sweet sake 
A heart that doats on truer charms. 

A simple maiden in her flower 
Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

Some meeker pupil you must find, 
For were you queen of all that is, 

I could not stoop to such a mind. 
You sought to prove how I could love, 

And my disdain is jny reply. 
The lion on your old stone gates 

Is not more cold to you than I. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

You put strange memories in my head. 
Not thrice your branching limes have 
blown 

Since I beheld young Laurence dead. 
Oh your sweet eyes, your low replies : 

A great enchantress you may be ; 
But there was that across his throat 

Which you had hardly cared to see. 

Lady Claia Vere de Vere, 

When thus he met his mother's view. 
She had the passions of her kind, 

She spake some certain truths of you. 
Indeed I heard one bitter vvoid 

That scarce is fit for you to hear ; 
Her manners had not that repose 

Which stamps the caste of Vere de 
Vere. 



Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

There stands a spectre in your hall : 
The guilt of blood is at your door : 

You changed a wholesome heart to gall. 
You held your course witliout remorse, 

To make him trust his modest worth, 
And, last, you fix'd a vacant stare, 

And slew him with your noble birth. 

Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, 

From yon blue heavens above us bent 
The grand old gardener and his wife 

Smile at the claims of long descent. 
Howe'er it be, it seems to me, 

'T is only noble to be good. 
Kind hearts are more than coronets, 

And simple faith than Norman blood. 

I know you, Clara Vere de Vere : 

You pine among your halls and towers : 
The languid light of your proud eyes 

Is wearied of the rolling hours. 
In glowing health, with boundless wealth, 

I3ut sickening of a vague disease. 
You know so ill to deal with time, 

You needs must play such pranks as thes» 

Clara, Clara Vere de Vere, 

If Time be heavy on your hands, 
Are there no beggars at your gate. 

Nor any poor about your lands? 
Oh ! teach the orphan-boy to read. 

Or teach the orphan-girl to sew, 
Pray Keaven lor a human heart. 

And let the f(*olish yeoman go. 



THE MAY QUEEN. 

^ou must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear; 
To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year ; 
Of all the glad New-year, mother, the maddest merriest day ; 
For I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen o' the May. 

There 's many a black black eye, they say, but none so bright as mine ; 

There's Margaret and Mary, there's Kate and Caroline: 

But none so fair as little Alice in all the land they say, 

So I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen o' the May. 

I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake, 

If you do not call me loud when the day begins to break : 

But I must gather knots of flowers, and buds and garlands gay. 

For I 'm to be Queen o' the IVIay, mother, I 'm to be Queen o' the May. 

As I came up the valley whom think ye should I see. 

But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel-tree? 

He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him yesterday, — 

But 1 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen o' the May. 

He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in while. 
And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of light. 
They call me cruelhearled, but 1 care not what they say. 
For 1 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen o' the May. 

They say he 's dying all for love, but that can never be : 
They say his heart is breaking, mother — what is that to rae ? 



NEW-YEAR'S EVE. 

There 's many a bolder lad 'ill woo me any summer day, 

And I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen o' the May. 

Little Efifie shall go with me to-morrow to the green. 

And you '11 be there, too, niolliur, to see me made the Queen ; 

For the shepherd lads on every side 'ill come from far away. 

And I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen o' the May. 

The honeysuckle round the porch has wov'n its wavy bowers. 
And by tlie meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers; 
And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and lioUows gray. 
And I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen o' the May. 

The night-winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow-grass. 

And the happy stars above them seem to brighten as they pass ; 

There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the livelong day, 

And I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen o' the May. 

All the valley, mother, 'ill be fresh and green and still. 

And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill. 

And the rivulet in the tlowery dale 'ill merrily glance and play, 

For 1 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen o' the May. 

So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear. 
To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year : 
To-morrow 'ill be of all the year the maddest merriest day. 
For I 'ra to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen o' the May. 



NEW-YEAR'S EVE. 

If you 're waking, call me early, call me early, mother dear. 

For I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year. 

It is the last New-year that I shall ever see. 

Then you may lajime low i' the mould and think no more of me. 

To-night I saw the sun set : he set and left behind 
The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of mind ; 
And the New-year's coming up, mother, but 1 shall never see 
The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree. 

Last May we made a crown of flowers : we had a merry day ; 
Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen of May ; 
And we danced about the may-pole and in the hazel copse. 
Till Charles's Wain came out above the tall white chimney-tops. 

There 's not a flower on all the hills : the frost is on the pane : 
I only wish to live till the snowdrops come again : 
I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on high : 
I long to see a flower so before the day I die. 

The building rook 'ill caw frorn the windy tall elm-tree, 

And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea. 

And the swallow 'ill come back again with summer o'er the wave. 

But 1 shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering grave. 

Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that grave of mine, 
In the early early morning the summer sun 'ill shine. 
Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill. 
When you are warm-asleep, mother, and all the world is still. 

When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning light 
You '11 never see me more in the long gray fields at night ; 
When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool 
On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the pool. 

You '11 bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade, 
And you '11 come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid. 



CONCLUSION. 

I shall not forget you, mother, I shall hear yon when you pass, 
With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass. 



I have been wild and waywaSd, but yon '11 forgive me now ; 
You Ml kiss me, my own mother, and forgive me ere 1 go ; 
N.iy, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild. 
You should not fret for me, mother, you have another child. 

If I can T 'II come again, mother, from out my resting-place; 
Tho' you '11 not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face; 
Tho' I cannot speak a word, 1 shall hearken what you say. 
And be often, often with you when you think I 'm far away. 

Good-night, good-night, when I have said good-night forevermore. 
And you see me cairied out from the threshold of tl»e door: 
Don't let Efiie come to see me till my grave be growing gretn ; 
She'll be a better child to you than ever 1 have been. 

She Ml find my garden-tools upon the granary floor; 
Let her take 'em : they are hers : I shall never garden more: 
Ijut tell !ier, when 1 'm gone, to train the rose-bush that 1 set 
About the parlor- window and the box of mignonette. 

Good-night, sweet mother ; call me before the day is born. 
All night 1 lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn ; 
but 1 would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year, 
So, if you 're waking, call me, call me early, mother dear. 



CONCLUSION. 

I THOUGHT to pass away before, and yet alive I am ; 
And in the fields all round I hear the bleating of the lamh. 
How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year ! 
To die before the snowdrop came, and now the violet 's hercL 

O sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the skies. 
And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to me that cannot rise. 
And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers that blow. 
And sweeter far is death than life to me that long to go. 

It seemM so hard at firsi, mother, to leave the blessed siin. 
And now it seems as hard to stay, and yet His will be done ! 
But still 1 think it can't be long before I find release : 
And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words of (leace. 

O blessings on his kindly voice and on his silver hair ' 

And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me there ! 

blessings on his kindly heart and on his silver head ! 

A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt beside n»y bed. 

He taught me all the mercy, for he show'd me all the sin. 
Now, tho' my lamp was lighted late, there 's One will let me in; 
Nor would I now be well, mother, again, if that could be, • 
For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me. 

1 did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death-watch beat. 
There came a sweeter token when the night and morning meet; 
But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine, 
And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign. 

All in the wild March-morning { heard the angels call : 
It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all ; 
The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll. 
And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my souL 

For lying broad awake f thought of you and Kffie dear ; 
J saw you sitting in the house, aod 1 iio lunger here; 



THE LOTOS-EATERS. 

With all my strength I pray'd for both, and so I felt resign'd. 
And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind. 

I thought that it was fancy, and I listen'd in my bed, 
And then did something speak to me — 1 know not what was said ; 
For great delight and shuddering took hold of all niy mind, 
And up the valley came again the music on the wind. 

But jrou were sleeping ; and I said, " It 's not for them : it 's mine.' 
And if it comes three times, I thought, I take it for a sign. 
And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars. 
Then seem'd to go right up to Heaven and die among the stars. 

So now I think rny time is near. I trust it is. I know 
The blessed music went that way my soul will have to go. 
And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day. 
But, Kffie, you must comfort Iter when I am past away. 

And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to fret ; 
There 's many worthier than I, would make him happy yet 
If 1 had lived — I cannot tell — I might have been his wife ; 
But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life. 

O look ! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a glow ; 

He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know. 

And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shine — 

Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine. 

O sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done 
The voice, that now is speaking, may be beyond the sun — 
■ For ever and for ever with those just souls and true — 
And what is life, that we should moan ? why make we such ado.' 

For ever and for ever, all in a blessed home — 
And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come — 
To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast — 
And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest. 



THE LOTOS-EATERS. 

" Courage ! " he said, and pointed toward 
the land, 

" This mounting wave will roll us shore- 
ward soon." 

In the afternoon they came unto a land, 

In which it seemed always afternoon. 

All round the coast the languid air did swoon. 

Breathing like one that hath a weary dream. 

Full-faced above the valley stood the moon ; 

And like a downward smoke, the slender 
stream 

Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall did 
seem. 

A land of streams I some, like a downward 
smoke, 

Slow-dropping veils of thiiniest lawn, did go ; 

And some thro' wavering lights and shadows 
broke. 

Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below. 

They saw the gleaming river seaward flow 

From the inner land : far off, three mountain- 
tops. 

Three silent pinnacles of aged snow. 

Stood sunsel-flush'd : and, dew'd with show- 
ery drops, ^ 

Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven 
cupse. 



The charmed sunset linger'd low adown 

In the red West: thro' mountain clefts the 

dale ,-. 

Was seen far inland, and the yellow down 
Border'd with palm, and many a winding 

vale 
And meadow, set with slender galingale : 
A land where all things always seem'd the 

same I 
And round about the keel with faces pale, 
Dark faces pale against that rosy flame. 
The mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eaters 

came. 

Branches they bore of that enchanted stem, 
Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they 

pave 
To each, but whoso did receive of them, 
And taste, to him the gushing of the wave 
Far far away did seem to mourn and rave 
On alien shores : and if his fellow spake. 
His voice was thin, as voices from the grave ; 
And deep-asleep he seem'd, yet all awake. 
And music in his ears his beating heart did 

make. 

They sat them down upon the yellow sand. 
Between the sun and moon upon the shore ; 
And sweet it was to dream of Fatherland, 
Of child, and wife, and slave ; but evermore 



THE LOTOS-EATERS. 



29 



Most weary seem'd the sea, weary the oar, 
Weary the wandering fields of barren foam. 
Then some one said, " We will return no 

more " ; 
And all at once they sang, " Our island 

home 
Is far beyond the wave; we will no longer 

roam." 

CHORIC SONG. 



There is sweet music here that softer falls 
Than petals from blown roses on the grass, 
Or r>ight-dews on still waters between walls 
Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass ; 
Music that gentlier on the spirit lies. 
Than tir'd eyelids upon tir'd eyes : 
Music that brings sweet sleep down from the 

blissful skies. 
Heie are cool mosses deep. 
And thro' the moss the ivies creep, 
And in the stream the long-leaved flowers 

weep, 
And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs 

in sleep. 



Why are we weigh'd upon with heaviness. 

And utterly consumed wiih sharp distress, 

While all things else have rest from weari- 
ness? 

All things have rest : why should we toil 
alone. 

We only toil, who are the first of things, 

And make perpetual moan. 

Still from one sorrow to another thrown : 

Nor ever fold our wings, 

And cease from wanderings. 

Nor steep our brows in slumber's holv balm : 

Nor hearken what the inner spirit sings, 

" There is no joy but calm ! " 

Why should we only toil, the roof and crown 
of things ? 

3- 

Lo ! in the middle of the wood. 

The folded leaf is woo'd from out the bud 

With winds upon the branch, and there 

Grows green and broad, and takes no care, 

Sun-steep'd at noon, and in the moon 

Nightly dew-fed ; and turning yellow 

Falls, and floats adown the air. 

Lo ! sweeten'd uiih the summer light, 

The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow, 

Drops in a silent autumn night. 

All its allotted length of days. 

The flower ripens in its place. 

Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil. 

Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil. 



Hateful is the dark-blue sky. 
Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea 
Death is the end of life ; ah, why 
Should life all labor be ? 



Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast, 
And in a little while our lips are dumb. 
Let us alone. What is it ihat will last.' 
All things are taken from us, and become 
Portions and parcels uf the dreadful Past. 
Ld us alone. What pleasure can we have 
Tiwar with evil .' Is there any peace 
In ever climbing up the climbing wave.' 
All things have rest, and ripen toward the 

grave 
In silence ; ripen, fall and cease : 
Give us long rest or death, dark death, or 

dreamful ease. 



How sweet it were, hearing the downward 

stream. 
With half-shut eyes ever to seem 
Falling asleep in a half-dream ! 
To dream and dream, like yonder amber 

light. 
Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the 

height ; 
To hear each other's whisper'd speech ; 
Eating the Lotos day by day. 
To watch the crisping ripples on the beach, 
And tender curving lines of creamy spray ; 
To lend our hearts and spirits wholly 
To the influence of mild-minded melancholy; 
To muse and brood and live again in memory, 
With those old faces of our infancy 
Heap'd over with a mound of grass. 
Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn 

of brass ! 



Dear is the memory of our wedded lives, 
And dear the last embraces of our wives 
And their warm tears : but all hath sufFer'd 

change ; 
For surely now our household hearths are 

cold: 
Our sons inherit us : our looks are strange : 
And we should come like ghosts to trouble 

joy- 

Or else the island princes over-bold 

Have eat our substance, and the minstrel 
sings 

Before them of the ten-years' war in Troy, 

And our great deeds, as half-forgotten things. 

Is there confusion in the little isle? 

Let what is broken so remain. 

The Gods are hard to reconcile : 

'T is hard to settle order once again. 

There is confusion worse than death, 

Trouble on trouble, pain on pain. 

Long labor unto aged breath, 

.Sore task to hearts worn out with many wars 

And eyes grown dim with gazing on the pilot- 
stars. 

7- 
Rut, propt on beds of amaranth and moly. 
How sweet (while warm airs lull us, blowing 

lowly) 
With half-dropt eyelids still. 
Beneath a heaven dark and holy, 



y> 



To watcli thelnng liriglit river drawing slowly 

His waters from the piirijie hill — 

To hear the dewy echoes calling 

From cave to cave thro' the thick-twined 

vine — 

To watch the emerald-color'd water falling 
Thro' many a wov'n acanthus-wreath divine I 
Only to hear and see the far-off sparkling 

brine, 
Only to hear were sweet, stretch'd out be- 
neath the pine. 



The Lotos blooms below the barren peak : 
The Lotos blows by every winding creek : 
All day the wind breathes low with mellower 

tone : 
Thro' every hollow cave and alley lone 
Round and round the spicy downs the yellow 

Lotos-dust is blown. 
We have had enough of action, and of motion 

we, 
RoU'd to starboard, roll'd to larboard, when 

the surge was seething free, 
Where the wallowing monster spouted his 

foam-fountains in the sea. 
Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an 

equal mind, 
In the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie re- 
clined 
On the liills like Gods together, careless of 

mankind. 
For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts 

are hurl'd 
Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds 

are lightly cnrl'd 
Round their golden houses, girdled with the 

gleaming world : 
Where they smile in secret, looking over 

wasted lands. 
Blight and famine, I'lague and earthquake, 

roaring deeps and fiery sands, 
Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and 

sinking ships, and praying liands. 
But they smile, they find a music centred in 

a doleful song 
Steaming up, a lamentation and an ancient 

tale of wrong, 
Like a tale of little meaning tho' the words 

are strong ; 
Chanted from an ill-used race of men that 

cleave the soil. 
Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with 

enduring toil. 
Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and wine 

and oil ; 
Till they perish and they snffe;r — some, 't is 

whispered — down in hell 
Suffer endless anguish, others in Elysian 

valleys dwell. 
Resting weary limbs at last on beds of as- 
phodel. 
Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than 

toil, the shore 
Than labor in the deep mid-ocean, wind and 

wave and oar ; 
O rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wan- 
der more. 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN: 

A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 

I RE.^D, before my eyelids dropt their shade, 
" Tlie Legend of Good IVotnefi," long 



Sung by tlie morning star of song, who made 
His music heard below ; 

Dan Chaucer, the first warbler, whose sweet 
breath 

Preluded those melodious bursts that fill 
The spacious times of great Elizabeth 

With sounds that echo still. 

And, for a while, the knowledge of his art 
Held me above the subject, as strong 
gales 
Hold swollen clouds from raining, iho' my 
heart. 
Brimful of those wild tales. 

Charged both mine eyes with tears. In every 
land 

I saw, wherever light illumineth, 
Beauty and anguish walking hand in hand 

I'he downward slope to death. 

Those far-renowned brides of ancient song 
Peopled the hollow dark, like burning 
stars. 
And I heard sounds of insult, shame, and 
wrong. 
And trumpets blown for wars ; 

And clattering flints batter'd with clanging 
hoofs : 
And I saw crowds in column'd sanctua- 
ries ; 
And forms that pass'd at windows and on roofs 
Of marble palaces ; 

Corpses across the threshold ; heroes tall 
Dislodging pinnacle and parapet 

Upon the tortoise creeping to the wall ; 
Lances in ambush set ; 

And high shrine-doors burst thro' with heated 
blasts 
That run before the fluttering tongues of 
fire ; 
White surf wind-scatter'd over sails and 
masts. 
And ever climbing higher ; 

Squadrons and squares of men in brazen 
plates, 
Scaflfblds, still sheets of water, divers 
woes. 
Ranges of glimmering vaults with iron grates, 
And hush'd seraglios. 

So shape chased shape as swift as, when to 
land 
Bluster the winds and tides ihesell'-same 
way, 
Crisp foam-flakes scud along the level sand. 
Torn from the fringe of spray. 




' O rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander nii 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN: 



31 



I started once, or seem'd to start in pain. 
Resolved on noble tilings, and strove to 
speak. 
As when a great thought strikes along the 
brain, 
And flushes all the cheek. 

And once my arm was lifted to hew down 
A cavalier from off his saddle-bow, 

That bore a lady from a leaguer'd town ; 
And then, I know not how, 

All those sharp fancies by down-lapsing 
thought 
Stream'd onward, lost their edges, and 
did creep 
RoU'd on each other, rounded, smooth'd, 
and brought 
Into the gulfs of sleep. 

At last methought that I had wandered far 
In an old wood : fresli-wash'd in coolest 
dew, 

The maiden splendors of the morning star 
Shook in the steadfast blue. 

Enormous elm-tree boles did stoop and lean 
Upon the dusky brushwood underneath 

Their broad curved branches, fledged with 
clearest green. 
New from its silken sheath. 

The dim red morn had died, her journey 
done, 
And with dead lips smiled at the twilight 
plain, 
Half-fall'n across the threshold of the sun, 
Never to rise again. 

There was no motion in the dumb dead air. 
Not any song of bird or sound of rill ; 

Gross darkness of the inner sepulchre 
Is not so deadly still 

As that wide forest. Growths of jasmine 
turn'd 

Their humid arms festooning tree to tree, 
And at the root thro' lush green grassesburn'd 

The red anemone. 

I knew the flowers, I knew the leaves, T knew 
The tearful glimmer of the languid dawn 
On those long, rank, dark wood-walks 
drench'd in dew. 
Leading from lawn to lawn. 

The smell of violets, hidden in the green, 
Pour'd back into my empty soul and 
frame 

The times when I remember to have been 
Joyful and free from blame. 

And from within me a clear under-tone 

Thrill'd thro' mine ears in that unb'issful 
clime, 

" Pass freely thro' : the wood is all thine own. 
Until the end of time." 



At length I saw a lady within call, 

Stiller than chisell'd marble, standing 
there : 

A daughter of the gods, divinely tall, 
And most divinely fair. 

Her loveliness with sharr/: and with surprise 
Froze my swift speetli ; she turning on 
my face 

The star-like sorrows of immortal eyes, 
Spoke slowly in her place. 

" I had great beauty ; ask thou not my name : 
No one can be move wise than destiny. 

Many drew swords and died. Where'er I 
came 
I brought calamity." 

" No marvel, sovereign lady : in fair field 
Myself for such a face had boldly died:" 

I answcr'd free ; and turning I appeal'd 
To one that stood beside. 

But she, with sick and scornful looks averse. 
To her full height her stately stature 
draws ; 
" My youth," she said, "was blasted with a 
curse : 
This woman was the cause. 

" I was cut off from hope in that sad place. 
Which yet to name my spirit loathes and 
fears : 

My father held his hand upon his face : 
I, blinded with my tears, 

" Still strove to speak : my voice was thick 
with sighs 
As in a dream. Dimly I could descry 
The stern black-bearded kings with wolfish 
eyes. 
Waiting to see me die. 

" The high masts flicker'd as they lay afloat ; 
The crowds, the temples, waver'd, and 
the shore ; 
The bright death quiver'd at the victim's 
throat ; 
Touch'd ; and I knew no more." 

Whereto the other with a downward brow : 
" I would the white cold heavy-plunging 
foam, 

Whirl'dby the wind, had roll'd me deep below. 
Then when I left my home." 

Her slow full words sank thro' the silence 
drear, 
As thiuider-drops fall on a sleeping sea ; 
Sudden I heard a voice that cried, " Come 
here. 
That 1 may look on thee." 

I turning saw, throned on a flowery rise. 
One sitting on a crimson scarf unroli'd ; 

A queen, with swarthy cheeks and bold black 
eyes, 
Brow-bout.J with burning gold. 



32 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 



She, flashing forth a haughty smile, began : 
" I govern'd men by change, and so 1 
sway'd 
All moods. 'Tis long since I have seen a 
man. 
Once, like the nioun, I made 

" The ever-shifting currents of the blood 
According to my hiunor ebb and flow. 

I have no men to govern in this wood : 
That makes my only woe. 

" Nay — yet it chafes me that I could not 
bend 
One will ; nor tame and tutor with mine 
eye 
That dull cold-blooded Caesar. Prythee, 
friend, 
Where is Mark Antony? 

The man, my lover, with whom I rode 
sublime 
On Fortune's neck : we sat as God by 
God: 
The Nilus would have risen before his time 
And flooded at our nod. 

" We drank the Libyan Sun to sleep, and lit 
Lamps which outburn'd Canopus. O 
my life 

In Egypt ! O the dalliance and the wit. 
The flattery and the strife, 

" And the wild kiss, when fresh from war's 
alarms. 

My Hercules, my Roman Antony, 
My mailed Bacchus leapt into my arms. 

Contented there to die ! 

" And there he died : and when I heard my 
name 
Sigh'd forth with life I would not brook 
mv fear 
Of the other : with a worm I balk'd his 
fame. 
What else was left ? look here ! " 

(With that she tore her robe apart, and half 
The polish'd argent of her breast to sight 

Laid bare. Thereto she pointed with a 
laugh. 
Showing the aspic's bite.) 

" I died a Queen. The Roman soldier found 
Me lying dead, my crown about my 
brows, 

A name forever ! — lying robed and crown'd, 
Worthy a Roman spouse." 

H ;r warbling voice, a lyre of widest range 
Struck by all passion, did fall down and 
glance 
From tone to tone, and glided thro' all 
change 
Of liveliest utterance. 

When she made pause I knew not for de- 
light ; 
liecause with sudden motion from the 
ground 



She raised her piercing orbs, and fill'd with 
light 
The interval of sound. 

Still with their fires Love tipt his keenest 
darts ; 
As once they drew into two burning 
rings 
All beams of Love, melting the mighty hearts 
Of captains and of kings. 

Slowly my sense undazzled. Then I heard 
A noise of some one coming thro' the 
lawn. 

And singing clearer than the crested bird, 
That claps his wings at dawn. 

" The torrent brooks of hallow'd Israel 

From craggy hollows pouring, late and 
soon, 
Sound all night long, in falling thro' the 
dell, 
Far-heard beneath the moon. 

"The balmy moon of blessed Israel 

Floods all the deep-blue gloom with 
beams divine : 
All night the splinter'd crags that wall the 
dell • 

With spires of silver shine." 

As one that museth where broad sunshine 
laves 
The lawn of some cathedral, thro' the 
door 
Hearing the holy organ rolling waves 
Of sound on roof and floor 

Within, and anthem sung, is charm'd and tied 
To where he stands, — so stood \, when 
that flow 

Of niusic left the lips of her that died 
To save her father's vow ; 

The daughter of the warrior Gileadite, 

A maiden pure ; as when she went along 

From Mizpeh's tower'd gate with welcome 
light. 
With timbrel and with song. 

My words leapt forth : " Heaven heads the 
count of crimes 
With that wild oath." She render'd 
answer high : 
" Not so, nor once nlone ; a thousand times 
I would be born and die. 

" Single I grew, like some green plant, whose 
root 
Creeps to the garden water-pipes be- 
neath, 
p^eeding the flower : but ere my flower to fruit 
Changed, I was ripe for death. 

" My God, my land, my father, — these did 
move 
Me from my bliss of life, that Nature 
gave. 



MARGARET. 



33 



Lower'd softly with a threefold cord of love 
Down to a silent grave. 

'And I went mourning, 'No fair Hebrew 
boy 
Shall smile away my maiden blame 
among 
The Hebrew mothers' — emptied of all joy, 
Leaving the dance and song, 

"Leaving the olive-gardens far below, 

Leaving the promise of my bridal bower, 

The valleys of gr.ipe-loaded vines that glow 
Beneath the battled tower. 

"The light white cloud swam over us. Anon 
We heard the lion roaring from his den ; 

We saw the large white stars rise one by one, 
Or, from the darken'd glen, 

" Saw God divide the night with flying 
flame. 

And thunder on the everlasting hills. 
1 heard Him, for He spake, and grief became 

A solemn sconi of ills. 

"When the next moon was roll'd into the 
sky, 
Strength came to me that equall'd my 
desire. 
How beautiful a thing it was to die 
For God and for my sire ! 

" It comforts me in this one thought to dwell. 
That I subdued me to my father's will ; 

Because the kiss he gave me, ere 1 fell, 
Sweetens the spirit still. 

" Moreover it is written that my race 

Hew'd Ammon, hip and thigh, from 
Aroer 

On Arnon unto Minneth." Here her face 
Glow'd, as I look'd at her. 

She lock'd her lips : she left me where I 
stood : 
" Glory to God," she sang, and past 
afar, 
Thridding the sombre boskage of the wood. 
Toward the morning-star. 

Losing her carol I stood pensively. 

As one that from a casement leans his 
head, 

When midnight bells cease ringing suddenly. 
And the old year is dead. 

"Alas ! alas ! " a low voice, full of care, 

Murmur' J beside me : " Turn and look 
on me : 

I am that Rosamond, whom men call fair, 
If what I was I be. 

" Would I had been some maiden coarse and 
poor ! 
O me, that I should ev:;r see the light ! 



Those dragon eyes of anger'd Eleanor 
Do hunt me, day and night." 

She ceased in tears, fallen from hope and 
trust : 
To whom the Egyptian : " O, you tamely 
died ! 
You should have clung to Fulvia's waist, and 
thrust 
The dagger thro' her side." 

With that sharp sound the white dawn's 
creeping beams, 

Stol'n to my brain, dissolved the mystery 
Of folded sleep. The captain of my dreams 

Ruled in the eastern sky. 

Morn broaden'd on the borders of the dark, 
Ere I saw her, who clasp'd in her last 
trance 

Her murder'd father's head, or Joan of Arc, 
A light of ancient Frailce ; 

Or her, who knew tha-t Love can vanquish 
Death, 
Who kneeling, with one arm about her 
king. 
Drew forth the poison with her balmy breath, 
Sweet as new buds in Spring. 

No memor)' labors longer from the deep i 

Gold-mines of thought to lift the hidden \ 
ore 

That glimpses, moving up, than I from sleep 
To gather and tell o'er 

Each little sound and sight. With what dull 
pain 

Compass'd.how eagerly I sought to strike 
Into that wondrous track of dreams again ! 

But no two dreams are like. 

As when a soul laments, which hath been 
blest. 

Desiring what is mingled with past years. 
In yearnings that can never be exprest 

By signs or groans or tears ; 

Because all words, tho' culi'd with choicest 
art. 

Failing to give the bitter of the sweet, 
Wither beneath the palate, and the heart 

Faints, faded by its heat. 



MARGARET. 



O .SWEET pale Margaret, 

O rare pale Margaret, 
What lit your eyes with tearful power. 
Like moonlight on a falling shower.' 
Who lent you, love, your mortal dower 

Of pensive thought and aspect pale. 

Your melancholy sweet and frail 
.As perfutne of the cuckoo flower? 
From the westward-winding flood, 



34 



THE BLACKBIRD. — THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR. 



From the evening-lighted wood. 

From all things outward you have won 

A tearful grace, as the' you stood 

Between the rainbow and tlie sun. 

The very smile before you speak, 

That dimples your transparent cheek, 
Encircles all the heart, and feedeth 

The senses with a still delight 

Of dainty sorrow without sound, 
Like the tender atnber round. 
Which the tnoon about her spreadeth, 

Moving thro' a fleecy night. 



You love, remaining peacefully. 

To hear the murmur of the strife, 
r.ut enter not the toil of life. 

Your spirit is the calmed sea. 

Laid by the tumult of the fight. 

You are the evening star, alway 

Remaining betwixt dark and bright : 

Lull'd echoes of laborious day 

Come to you, gleams of mellow light 
Float by you on the verge of night. 



What can it matter, Margaret, 

What songs below the waning stars 

The lion-heart, Plantagenet, 

Sang looking thro' his prison bars? 
Exquisite Margaret, who can tell 

The last wild thought of Chatelet, 
Just ere the fallen axe did part 
The burning brain from the true heart. 
Even in her sight he loved so well .■' 



A fairy shield your Genius made 

And gave you on your natal day. 
Your sorrow, only sorrow's shade. 

Keeps real sorrow far away. 
You move not in such solitudes, 

You are not less divine, 
But more human in your moods, 

Than your twin-sister, Adeline. 
Your hair is darker, and your eyes 

Touch'd with a somewhat darker liue. 

And less aerially blue 

But ever trembling thro' the dew 
Of dainty-woful sympathies. 



O sweet pale Margaret, 
O rare pale Margaret, 
Come down, come down, and hear me speak: 
Tie up the ringlets on your cheek : 

The sun is just about to set. 
The arching limes are tall and shady, 
And faint, rainy lights are seen, 
Moving in the leafy beech. 
Rise from the feast of sorrow, lady, . 
Where all day long you sit between 
Joy and woe, and whisper each. 
Or only look across the lawn, 

Look out below your bower-eaves, 

Look down, and let your blue eyes dawn 

Upon me thro' the jasmine-leaves. 



THE BLACKBIRD. 

O Blackbird ! sing me something well : 
While all the neighbors shoot the round, 
I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground. 

Where thou may'st warble, eat, and dwell. 

The espaliers and the standards all 

Are thine ; the range of lawn and park: 
The unnetted black-hearts ripen dark, 

All thine, against the garden wall. 

Yet, tho' I spared thee all the Spring, 
Thy sole delight is, sitting still. 
With that gold dagger of thy bill 

To fret the Summer jenneting. 

A golden bill ! the silver tongue. 

Cold February loved, is dry : 

Plenty corrupts the melody 
That made thee famous once, when young : 

And in the sultry garden-squares. 

Now thy tlutc-notes are changed to coarse, 
I hear thee not at all, or hoarse 

As when a hawker hawks his wares. 

Take warning I he that will not sing 
While yon sun prospers in the blue. 
Shall sing for want, ere leaves are new, 

Caught in the frozen palms of Spring. 



THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAH 

Full knee-deep lies the winter snow. 
And the winter winds are wearily sighing : 
Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow, 
And tread softly and speak low. 
For the old year lies a-dying. 

Old year you must not die ; 

You came to us so readily. 

You lived with us so steadily. 

Old year, you shall not die. 

He lieth still : he doth not move : 

He will not see the dawn of day. 

He hath no other life above. 

He gave me a friend, and a true true-love 

And the New-year will take 'em away. 

Old year you must not go ; 

So long as you have been with us. 

Such joy as you have seen with us. 

Old year, you shall not go. 

He froth'd his bumpers to the brim; 
A jollier year we shall not see. 
But tho' his eyes are waxing dim. 
And tho' his foes speak ill of him, 
He was a friend to me. 

Old year, you shall not die ; 

We did so laugh and cry with you, 

I 've half a mind to die with you, 

Old year, if you must die. 

He was full of joke and jest, 
But all his merry quips are o'er. 
To see him die across the waste 
His son and heir doth ride post-haste, 



TO J. S. — VOU ASK ME li^HY. 



But he 'II be dead before. 
Every one for his own. 
Tlie nighi is starry and cold, my friend, 
And the New-year blithe and bold, my 

friend, 
Comes up to take his own. 

How hard he breathes ! over the snow 
1 heard just now the crowing cock. 
'J'he shadows flicker to and fro : 
I'he cricket chirps : the light burns low : 
'T is nearly twelve o'clock. 

Shake hands, before you die. 

Old year, we '11 dearly rue for you : 

What is it we can do for you ? 

Speak out before you die. 

His face is growing sharp and thin. 
Alack ! our friend is gone, 
Clo.se up his eyes : tie up his chin : 
Step from the corpse, and let him in 
That standeth there alone. 

And waiteth at the door. 

There's a new foot on the floor, my friend, 

And a new face at the door, my friend, 

A new face at tlie door. 



TO J. S. 

The wind, that beats the mountain, blows 
More softly round the open wold. 

And gently comes the world to those 
That are cast in gentle mould. 

And me this knowledge bolder made, 
Or else I had not dare to flow 

In these words toward you, and invade 
Even with a verse your holy woe. 

'Tis strange that those we lean on most, 
Those in whose laps our limbs are 
nursed, 

Fall into shadow, soonest lost : 

Those we love first are taken first. 

God gives us love. Something to love 
He lends us ; but, when love is grown 

To ripeness, that on which it throve, 
Falls off, and love is left alone. 

This is the curse of time. Alas ! 

In grief I am not all unlearn'd ; 
Once thro' mine own doors Death did pass; 

One went, who never hath return'd. 

He will not smile — not speak to me 

Once more. Two years his chair is seen 

Empty before us. That was he 

Without whose life I had not been. 

Your loss is rarer ; for this star 
Rose with you thro' a little arc 

Of heaven, nor having wander'd far 
Shot on the sudden into dark. 

I knew your brother : his mute dust 
I honor and his living worth : 



A man more pure and bold and just 
Was never born into the earth. 

I have not look'd upon you nigh. 

Since that dear soul hath fall'n asleep. 

Great Nature is more wise than I : 
1 will not tell you not to weep. 

And tho' mine own eyes fill with dew. 
Drawn from the spirit thro' the brain, 

I will not even preach to you, 

" Weep, weeping dulls the inward pain." 

Let Grief be her own mistress still. 

She lovelh her own anguish deep 
More than much pleasure. Let her wi''! 

Be done — to weep or not to weep. 

I will not say " God's ordinance 

Of Death is blown in every wind"; 

For that is not a common chance 
That takes away a noble mind. 

His memory long will live alone 

In all our hearts, as mournful light 

That broods above the fallen sun. 

And dwells in heaven half the night. 

Vain solace ! Memory standing near 

Cast down her eyes, and in her throat 

Her voice seem'd distant, and a tear 
Dropt on the letters as I wrote. 

I wrote I know not what. In truth. 
How should I soothe you anyway, 

Who miss the brother of your youth? 
Yet something I did wish to say : 

For he too was a friend to me : 

Hoth are my friends, and my true breast 
Bleedeth for both : yet it may be 

That only silence suiteth best. 

Words weaker than your grief would make 
Grief more. 'T were better I should 
cease ; 

Although myself could almost take 

The place of him that sleeps in peace. 

Sleep sweetly, tender heart, in peace : 
Sleep, holy spirit, blessed soul, 

While the stars burn, the moons increase, 
And the great ages onward roll. 

Sleep till the end, true soul and sweet. 

Nothing comes to thee new or strange, 
Sleep full of rest from head to feet ; 

Lie still, dry dust, secure of change. 



You ask me, why, tho' ill at case. 
Within this region I subsist. 
Whose spirits falter in the mist, 

And languish for the purple seas? 



36 



OF OLD SAT FREEDOM.— LOVE THOU THY LAND. 



It is the land that freemen til), 

Thai sober-suited Freedom chose, 

The land, where girt with friends or foes 

A man may speak the thing he will ; 

A land of settled government, 

A land of just and old renown. 
Where Freedom broadens slowly down 

From precedent to precedent: 

Where faction seldom gathers head. 
But by degrees to fulness wrought. 
The strength of some diffusive thought 

Halh time and space to work and spread. 

Should banded unions persecute 
Opniion, and induce a time 
When single thought is civil crime, 

And individual freedom mute ; 

Tho' Power should make from land to land 
The name of Britain trebly great — 
Tho' every channel of the State 

Should almost choke with golden sand — 

Yet waft me from the harbor-mouth, 
Wild wind ! I seek a warmer sky. 
And I will see before I die 

The palms and temples of the South. 



Of old sat Freedom on the heights. 

The thunders breaking at her feet : 
Above her shook the starry lights : 

She heard the torrents meet. 

There in her place she did rejoice, 

Self-gather'd in her iirophet-miiid, 

But fragments of her mighty voice 
Came rolling on the wind. 

Then slept she down thro' town and field 
To mingle with the human race, 

And part by part to men reveal'd 
The fulness of her face — 

Grave mother of majestic works. 

From her isle-altar gazing down. 

Who. God like, grasps the triple forks, 
And, King-like, wears the crown : 

Her open eyes desire the truth. 

The wisdom of a thousand years 
Is in them. May perpetual youth 

Keep dry their light from tears ; 

That her fair form may stand and shine. 

Make bright our days and light our 
dreams, 

Turning to scorn with lips divine 
The falsehood of extremes ! 



Love thou thy land, with love far-brought 
From out the storied Past, and used 
Within the Present, but transfused 

Thro' future time by power of thought. 

True love turn'd round on fixed poles. 
Love, that endures not sordid ends, 
For English natures, freemen, friends, 

Thy brothers and immortal souls. 

But pamper not a hasty time. 
Nor feed with crude imaginings 
'I'he herd, wild hearts and feeble winrs, 

That every sophister can lime. 

Deliver not the tasks of might 
To weakness, neither hide the ray 
From those, not blind, who wait for day, 

Tho' sitting girt with doubtful light. 

^L^ke knowledge circle with the winds ; 

But let her herald. Reverence, fly 

Before her to whatever sky 
Bear seed of men and growth of minds. 

Watch what main-currents draw the years ; 
Cut Prejudice against the grain : 
But gentle words are always gain : 

Regard the weakness of thy peers : 

Nor toil for title, place, or touch. 
Of pension, neither count on praise : 
It grows to guerdon after-days : 

Nor deal in watch-words overmuch ; 

Not clinging to some ancient saw ; 

Not master'd by some modern term ; 

Not swift or slow to change, but firm : 
And in its season bring the law; 

That from Discussion's lip may fall 

With Life, that, working strongly, binds - 
Set in all lights by many minds, 

To close the interests of all. 

For Nature, also, cold and warm, 
And moist and dry, devising long, 
Thio' many agents making strong, 

Matures the individual form. 

Meet is it changes should control 
Our being, lest we rust in ease. 
We all are changed by still degrees, 

All but the basis of the soul. 

So let the change which comes be free 
To ingroove itself with that, which Hies, 
And work, a joint of state, that plies 

Its office, moved with sympathy. 

A saying, hard to shape in act ; 
For all the past of Time reveals 
A bridal dawn of thunder-peals. 

Wherever Thought hath wedded Fact. 

Ev'n now we hear viith inward strife 
A motion toiling in the gloom — 



THE GOOSE. 



The Spirit of the years to come 
Veaniing to mix himself" with' Life. 

A slow-develop'd strength awaits 
Completion in a jiaiiiful school ; 
Phantoms of othur forms of rule, 

New Majesties of mighty States — 

The warders of the growing hour. 
But vague in vapor, hard to mark : 
And round them sea and air are dark 

With great contrivances of Power. 

Of many changes, aptly join'd, 
Is bodied forth the second whole. 
Regard gradation, lest the soul 

Of Discord race the rising wind ; 

A wind to puff your idol-fires. 
And heap their ashes on the head ; 
To shame the boast so often made, 

That we are wiser than our sires. 

O yet, if Nature's evil star 

Drive men in manhood, as in youth. 
To follow flying steps of Truth 

Across the brazen bridge of war — 

If New and Old, disastrous feud. 
Must ever shock, like armed foes. 
And this be true, till Time shall close, 

That Principles are rain'd m blood ; 

Not yet the wise of heart would cease 
To hold his hope thro' shame and guilt, 
But with his hand against the hilt. 

Would pace the troubled land, like Peace ; 

Not less, tho' do^s of Faction bay. 
Would serve his kind in deed and word. 
Certain, if knowledge bring the sword, 

That knowledge takes the sword away — 

Would love the gleams of good that broke 
From either side, nor veil his eyes : 
And if some dreadful need should rise 

Would strike, and firmly, and one stroke : 

To-morrow yet would reap to-day. 
As we bear blossom of the dead ; 
Earn well the thrifty months, iior wed 

Raw Haste, half-sister to Delay. 



THE GOOSE. 

I KNEW an old wife lean and poor. 
Her rags scarce held together ; 

There strode a stranger to the door. 
And it was windy weather. 

He held a goose upon his arm. 
He utter'd rhyme and reason, 



" Here, take the goose, and keep you warm. 
It is a stormy season." 

She caught the white goose by the leg. 

A goose — 't was no great matter. 
The goose let fall a golden egg 

With cackle and with clatter. 

She dropt the goose, and caught the pelf, 

And ran to tell her neighbors ; 
And bless'd herself, and cursed herselfi 

And rested from her labors. 

And feeding high, and living soft, 

Grew plump and able-bodied ; 
Until the grave churchwarden doflf'd, 

The parson smirk'd and nodded. 

So sitting, served by man and maid. 
She felt her heart grow prouder : 

But ah ! the more the white goose laid 
It clack'd and cackled louder. 

It clutter'd here, it chuckled there ; 

It stirr'd the old wife's mettle : 
She shifted in her elbow-chair. 

And hurl'd the pan and kettle. 

" A quinsy choke thy cursed note ! " 
Then wax'd her anger stronger. 

" Go, take the goose, and wring her throat 
I will not bear it longer." 

Then yelp'd the cur, and yawl'd the cat; 

Ran Gaffer, stumbled Gammer, 
The goose Hew this way and (lew that. 

And fill'd the house with clamor. 

As head and heels upon the floor 

They floundered all together. 
There strode a stranger to iJie door. 

And it was windy weather : 

He took the goose upon his arm, 

He utter'd words of scorning ; 
" So keep you cold, or keep you warra. 

It is a stormy morning." 

The wild wind rang from iiark and plain. 

And round the attics rumbled. 
Till all the tables danced again. 

And half the chimneys tumbled. 

The glass blew in, the fire blew out. 

The blast was hard and harder. 
Her cap blew off, her gown blew up. 

And a whirlwind clear'd the larder ; 

And while on all sides breaking loose 

Her household fled the danger. 
Quoth she, " The Devil take the goose, 

And God forget the stranger !" 



38 



THE EPIC— MORTE D' ARTHUR. 



ENGLISH IDYLS AND OTHER POEMS. 



(published 1842.) 



THE EPIC. 



At Francis Allen's on the Christmas-eve, — 
The game of forfeits done — the girls all idss'd 
Beneath the sacred bush and past away — 
The parson Holmes, the poet Everard Hall, 
The host, and I sat round the wassail-bowl. 
Then lia!f-way ebb'd: and there we he'd a 

talk. 
How all the old honor had from Christmas 

gone. 
Or gone, or dwindled down to some odd games 
In some odd nooks like this; till I, tired out 
With cutting eights that day upon the pond, 
Where, three times slipping from the outer 

edge, 
I bump'd the ice into three several stars. 
Fell in a doze ; and half-awake I heard 
The parson taking wide and wider sweeps, 
Now harping on the church-commissioners, 
Now hawking at Geology and schism ; 
Until 1 woke, and found him settled down 
Upon the general decay of faith 
Kight thro' the world, "at home was little left, 
And none abroad : there was no anchor, none. 
To hold by." Francis, laughing, clapt his 

hand 
On Everard's shoulder, with " I hold by 

him." 
"And I," quoth Everard, "by the wassail- 
bowl." 
" Why yes," I said, " we knew your gift that 

way 
At college : but another which you had 
I mean of verse (for so we held it then,) 
What came of that ? " " Vou know," said 

Frank, " he burnt 
His epic, his King Arthur, some twelve 

books " — 
And then tome demanding why? " <), sir. 
He thought that nnihingnew wassaid, orelse 
Something so said 'twas nothing — that a 

truth 
Looks freshest in the fashion of the day : 
God knows : he has a mint of reasons : ask. 
It pleased me well enough." " Nav, nay," 

said Hall, 
" Why take the style of those heroic times? 
For nature brinjis not back the Mastodon, 
Nor we those times ; and why should any man 
Remodel models? these twelve books ofmine 
Were faint Homeric echoes, nothing-worth. 
Mere chaff and droff, much better burnt." 

" '■".' '«" 
Said Francis, " pick'd the eleventh from this 

hearth. 
And have it : keep a thing, its use will come. 
I hoard it as a sugar-plum for Holmes." 
He laugh'd, and I, though sleepy, like a hoise 



That hears the corn-bin open, prick'd my ears; 
For I remember'd Everard's college farne 
When we were Freshmen : then at my request 
He brought it ; and the poet little urged, 
lUit with some prelude of disparagement, 
Read, mouthing out his hollosv oes and aes, 
Deep-chested music, and to this result. 



MORTE D'ARTHUR. 

So all day long the noise of battle rnll'd 
Among the mountains by the winter sea; 
Until King Arthur's table, man by man. 
Had fall'n in Lyonness about their Lord, 
King Arthur : then, because his wound was 

deep, 
Tlie bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him. 
Sir Bedivere, the last of all his knights. 
And bore him to a chapel nigh the field, 
A broken chancel with a broken cross. 
That stood on a dark strait of barren land. 
On one side lay the Ocean, and on one 
Lay a great water, and the moon was full. 

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere : 
"7'he sequel of to-day unsolders all 
The goodliest fellowship of famous knights 
, Whereof this world holds record. Such a 

sleep 
They sleep — the men I loved. I think that 

we 
•Shall never more, at any future time. 
Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds. 
Walking about the gardens and the halls 
Of Camelot, as in the days that were. 
I perish by this people which I made, — 
Tho' Merlin sware that I should come again 
To rule once more — but let what will be, be, 
1 am so dfeply smitten thro' the helm 
That without help I cannot last till mom. 
'I'liou therefore take my brand Excalibur, 
Which was my pride ; for thou rememberest 

how 
In those old days, one summer noon, an arm 
Rose up from out the bosom of the lake. 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful. 
Holding the sword — and how I rowed across 
And took it, and have worn it, like a king : 
And. wheresoever I am sung or told 
In aftertime, this also shall be known : 
But now delay not : take Excalibur, 
And ding him far into the middle mere : 
Watch what thou seest, and lightly bring me 
word." 
To him replied the bold Sir Bevidere : 
" It is not meet. Sir King, to leave thee thus. 
Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' the helm. 
A little thing may harm a wounded man. 
Vet 1 Ihy hest will all perform at full. 



MORTE D' ARTHUR. 



39 



Watch what I see, and lightly brinj; thee 

word." 
So saj'ing, from the ruined slirine he slept 
And in the moon athwart the place of tombs, 
Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men, 
Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang 
Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, step- 
ping down 
By zig-zag paths, and juts of pointed rock. 
Came on the shining levels of the lake. 

There drew he forth the brand Excalibur, 
And o'er him, drawing it, the winter moon, 
Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran 

forth 
And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt : 
For all the haft twinkled with diamond studs, 
Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth-work 
Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so long 
That both his eyes were dazzled, as he stood. 
This way and that dividing the swift mind. 
In act to throw : but at the last it seom'd 
Better to leave Excalibur conccal'd 
There in the many-knotted watertlags, 
That whistled stiff and dry about the marge. 
So strode he back slow to the wounded king. 
Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere : 
" Hast thou performed my mission which I 

gave ? 
What is it thou hast seen or what hast 

heard? " 
And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere : 
" I heard the ripple washing in the reeds, 
And the wild water lapping on the crag." 
To whom replied King Arthur, faint and 

pale ; 
"Thoa hast betray'd thy nature and thy 

name. 
Not rendering true answer, as beseem'd 
Thy fealty, nor like a noble kniglit : 
For surer sign hid follow'd, either hand. 
Or voice, or else a motion of the mere. 
This is a shameful thing for m^n to lie. 
Yet now, 1 charge thee, quickly go again 
As thoa art lief and dear, and do the thing 
I bade thee, watch, and lightly bring me 

word." 
Then went Sir Bedivere the second time 
Across the ridge, and paced beside the mere. 
Counting the dewy pebbles, fix'd in thought ; 
But when he saw the wonder of the hilt. 
How curiously and strangely chased, he 

smote 
His palms together, and he cried aloud. 
"And if indeed I cast the brand away. 
Surely a precious thing, one worthy note. 
Should thus be lost forever from the earth, 
Which might have pleased the eyes of many 

men. 
What good should follow this, if this were 

done ? 
What harm, undone ? deep harm to disobey, 
Seeing obedience is the bond of rule. 
Were it well to obey then, if a king demand 
An act improfitable, against himself.' 
The King is sick, and knows not what he does. 
What record, or what relic of my lord 
Should be to aftertime, but empty breath 
Aud rumors of a doubt.'' but were this kept. 



Stored in some treasure-house of mighty 

kings. 
Some one might show it at a joust of arms. 
Saying, ' King Arthur's sword, Excalibur, 
Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake. 
Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps 
Upon the hidden bases of the hills.' 
So might some old man .speak in the aftertime 
To all the people, winning reverence. 
But now much honor and much fame were 

lost." 
So spake he, clouded with his own conceit, 
And hid Excalibur the second time. 
And so strode back slow to the wounded 

King. 
Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heav 

ily : 
" What is it thou hast seen ? or what hast 

heard ? " 
And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere : 
" I heard the water lapping on the crag, 
And the long ripple washing in the reeds." 
'I'o whom replied King Arthur, much ia 

wrath : 
"Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue, 
Unknightly, traitor-hearted ! Woe is me! 
Authority forgets a dying king. 
Laid widow'd of the power in his eye 
That bovv'd the will. I see thee what thou 

art. 
For thou, the latest left of all my knights. 
In whom should meet the offices of all. 
Thou wouldst betray me for the jirccious hilt ; 
Either from lust of gold, or like a girl 
Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes. 
Yet, for a man may tail in duty twice. 
And the third time may prosper, get thee 

hence : 
But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur, 
I will arise and slay tliee with my hands." 
Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran. 
And, leaping down the ridges lightly, plunged 
Among the bulrush-beds, and cliitch'd tho 

sword. 
And strongly wheel'd and threw it. The great 

brand 
Made lightnings in the splendor of the moon. 
And flashing round and round, and whirl'd ia 

an arch. 
Shot like a streamer of the northern morn. 
Seen where the moving isles of winter shock 
By night, with noises of the northern sea. 
So flash'd and fell the brand Excalibur : 
But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm 
Cloth'd in white samite, mystic, wonderful. 
And caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd 

him 
Three times, and drew him under in the mere. 
And lightly went the other to the King 
Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker I 

breath : 
" Now see I by thine eyes that this is done. 
Speak out : what is it thou hast heard, or 

seen?" 
And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere : 
" Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the 

gems 
Should blind my purpose, for I never saw, 



4° 



MORTE D' ARTHUR. 



Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die, 
Not the' I live three Hves of mortal men. 
So great a miracle as yonder hilt. 
Then with hoth hands I flung him, wheeling 

him ; 
But when I look'd again, behold an arm. 
Clothed in while samite, mystic, wonderful. 
That caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd 

him 
Three times, and drew him under in the 

mere." 
And answer made King Arthur, breathing 

hard : 
"My end draws nigh ; 'tis time that I were 

gone. 
Make broad thy shoulders to receive my 

weight. 
And bear me to the margin ; yet I fear 
My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die." 
So saying, from the pavement he half rose, 
Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm. 
And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes 
As in a picture. Him Sir Hedivere 
Remorsefully regarded thro' his tears, 
And would have spoken, but he found not 

words. 
Then took withcare, and kneeling ononeknee. 
O'er both his shoulders drew the languid 

hands. 
And rising bore him thro' the place of tombs. 
But, as he walk'd, King Arthur panted 

hard, 
Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed 
When all the house is mute. So sigh'd the 

King, 
Muttering and murmurmg at his ear " Quick, 

quick ! 
I fear it is too late, and I shall die." 
But the other swiftly strode from ridge to 

ridge, 
Clothed with his breath, and looking, as he 

walk'd, 
Larger than human on the frozen hills. 
He heard the deep behind him, and a cry 
Before. His own thought drove him like a 

goad. 
Dry clash'd his harness in the icy caves 
And barren chasms, and all to left and right 
The bare black cliff clang'd round him, as hi 

based 
His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang 
Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed heels — 
And on a sudden, lo ! the level lake. 
And the long glories of the winter moon. 
Then saw they how there hove a dusky 

barge, 
Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stem. 
Beneath them ; and descending they were 

ware 
That all the decks were dense with stately 

forms 
Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream — 

by these 
Three Queens with crowns of gold — and 

from them rose 
A cry that shiver'd to the tingling stars, 
And, as it were one voice, an agony 
Of lamentation, like a wind, that shrills 



All night in a waste land, where no one comes, 

Or hath come, since the makingof the world. 

Then murmur'd Arthur, " Place me in the 

barge," 
And to the barge they came. There those 

three Queens 
Put forth their hands, and took the King, 

and wept. 
But she that rose the tallest of them all 
And fairest, laid his head upon her lap, 
And loosed the shatter'd casque, and chafed 

his hands. 
And call'd him by his name.complaining loud, 
And dropping bitter tears against his brow 
Striped with dark blood : for all his face was 

white 
And colorless, and like the wither'd moon 
Smote by the fresh beam of the springing 

east ; 
And all his greaves and cuisses dash'd with 

drops 
Of onset ; and the light and lustrous curls — 
That made his forehead like a rising sun 
High from the dais-throne — were parch'd 

with dust ; 
Or, clotted into points and hanging loose, 
Mix'd with the knightly growth that fringed 

his lips. 
So like a shatter'd column lay the King ; 
Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest, 
From .spur to plume a star of tournament. 
Shot thro' the lists at Camelot, and charged 
Before the eyes of ladies and of kings. 

Then loudly cried the bold .Sir Bedivere, 
" Ah ! my Lord Arthur, whither shall 1 go? 
Where shall I hide my forehead and my 

eyes ? 
For now I see the true old times are dead, 
When every morning brought a noble chance. 
And every chance brought out a noble knight. 
Such times have been not since the light hath 

led 
The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh. 
lUitnow the whole round table is dissolved 
Which was an image of the mighty world ; 
And I, the last, go forth companionless, 
And the days darken round me, and the years. 
Among new men, strange faces, olherminds." 
And slowly answer'd Arthur from the 

barge ; 
"The old order changeth, yielding place to 

new. 
And God fulfils himself in many ways. 
Lest one good custom should corrupt the 

world. 
Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me? 
I have lived my life, and that which I have 

done 
May He within himself make pure ! but thou. 
If thou shouldst never see my face again, 
Pray for my soul. More things are wrought 

by prayer 
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let 

lily voice 
Rise like a fountain for me night and day. 
For what are men better than sheep or goats 
That nourish a blind life within the brain. 
If, knowing God, they lift not hands ol prayer 



THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER. 



41 



Both fot themselves and those who call them 

friend ? 
For so the whole round earth is every way 
Bound by gold chains about the feet ofOod. 
But now farewell. I am going a long way 
With these thou seiist — if indeed I go — 
(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt) 
To the island-valley of Avilion ; 
Where falls not hail, 01 rain, or any snow, 
Nor ever wind blows loudly ; but it lies 
Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard- 
lawns 
And bowery hollows crown'd with summer 

sea, 
Where 1 will heal me of my grievous wound.'' 
So said he, and the barge with oar and sail 
Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted 

swan — 
Tliat, fluting a wild carol ere her death, 
Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the 

flood 
With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere 
Revolving many memories, till the hull 
Look'd one black dot against the verge of 

dawn. 
And on the mere the wailing died away. 



Here ended Hall, and our last light, that 

long 
Had wink'd and threaten'd darkness, flared 

and fell : 
At which the Parson, sent to sleep with 

sound. 
And waked with silence, grunted " Good ! " 

but we 
Sat rapt : it was the tone with which he read — 
Perhaps some modern touches here and there 
Redeem'd it from the charge of nothing- 
ness — 
Or else we loved the man, and prized his 

work : 
I know not : but we sittmg, as I said. 
The cock crew loud ; as at that time of year 
The lusty bird takes every hour for dawn : 
Then Francis, muttering, like a man ill-used, 
"There now — that 's nothing 1 " drew a little 

back. 
And drove his heel into the smoulder'd log, 
That sent a blast of sparkles up the flue : 
And so to bed ; where yet in sleep I seem'd 
To sail with Arthur under looming shores. 
Point after point ; till on to dawn, when 

dreams 
Begin to feel the truth and stir of day, 
To me, methought, who waited with a crowd. 
There came a bark that, blowing forward, 

bore 
King Arthur, like a modern gentleman 
Of stateliest port ; and all the people cried, 
" Artliur is come again : he cannot die." 
Then those that stood upon the hills behind 
Repeated — " Come again, and thrice as 

fair " ; 
And, further inland, voices echoed — " Come 
With all good things, and war shall be no 

more." 
At this a hundred bells began to peal, 



That with the sound I woke, and heard in- 
deed 

The clear church-bells ring in the Christmas 
mum. 



THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER ; 
OR, THE PICTURES. 

This morning is the morning of the day, 
When I and Eustace from the city went 
To see the Gardener's Dausjhter ; I and he, 
Brothers in Art ; a friendship so complete 
Portion'd in halves between us, that we grew 
The fable of the city where we dwelt. 

My Eustace might have sat for Hercules; 
So muscular he spread, so broad of breast. 
He, by some law that holds in love, and draws 
'I'he greater to the lesser, long desired 
A certain miracle of symmetry, , 

A miniature of loveliness, all grace 
Summ'd up and closed in little ; — Juliet, she 
So light of foot, so light of spirit — oh, she 
To me myself, for some three careless moons. 
The summer pilot of an empty heart 
Unto the shores of nothing ! Know you not 
Such touches are but embassies of love, 
To tamper with the feelings, ere he found 
Empire for life? but Eustace painted her, 
And said to me, she sitting with us then, 
" When will you paint like this.' " and 1 re- 
plied, 
(My words were half in earnest, half in jest,) 
" 'T is not your work, but Love's. Love, 

unperceived, 
A more ideal Artist he than all, 
Came, drew your pencil from you, made those 

eyes 
Darker than darkest pansies, and that hair 
More black than ashbuds in the front of 

March." 
And Juliet answer'd laughing, "Go and see 
The Gardener's daughter: trust me, after 

that. 
You scarce can fail to match his masterpiece." 
And up we rose, and on the spur we went. 
Not wholly in the busy world, nor quite 
Beyond it, blooms the garden that I love. 
News from the humming city conies to it 
In sound of funeral or of marriage bells : 
And, sitting muffled in dark leaves, you hear 
The windy clanging of the minster clock ; 
Although between it and the garden lies 
A league of grass, wash'd by a slow broad 

stream. 
That, stirr'd with languid pulses of the oar, 
Waves all its lazy lilies, and creeps on, 
Barge-laden, to three arches of a bridge 
Crown'd with the minster towers. 

The fields between 
Are dewy-fresh, browsed by deep-udder d 

kine. 
And all about the large lime feathers low. 
The lime a summer home of murmurous 

wings. 
In that still place she, hoarded in herself. 
Grew, seldom seen : not less among us lived 
Htr fame from lip to 'i;). Who had not heard 



42 

Of Rose, the Gardener's daughter? Where 

was lie, 
So blunt in memory, so old at heart, 
At such a distance from his youth in grief. 
That, having seen, forgot.'' The connnon 

month 
So gross to express delight, in praise of her 
Grew oratory. Sncli a lord is Love, 
And Beauty such a mistress of the world. 
And if I said that Fancy, led by Love, 
Would play with flying forms and images, 
Yet this is also true, that, long before 
1 ionk'd upon her, when I heard her name 
My heart was like a prophet to my heart 
And told me I should love. A crowd of hopes. 
That sought to sow themselves like winged 

seeds. 
Born out of everything I heard and saw, 
Flutter'd about my senses and my soul ; 
And vague desires, like fitful blasts of balm 
To one that travels quickly, made the air 
Of Life delicious, and all kinds of thought, 
"I'liat verged upon them, sweeter than the 

dream 
Dream 'd by a happy man, when the dark 

East, 
Unseen, is brightening to his bridal morn. 
And sure this orbit of the memory folds 
Forever in itself the day we went 
To see her. All the land in flowery squares 
Beneath a broad and equal-blowing wnid. 
Smelt of the coming summer, as one large 

cloud 
Drew downward ; but all else of Heaven was 

pure 
Up to the Sun, and May from verge to verge. 
And ^L^y with me from head to heei. Anti 

now. 
As tho' 't were yesterday, as tho' it were 
The hour just tlown, that morn with all its 

sound, 
(For those old Mays had thrice the life of 

these,) 
Rings in mine ears. The steer forgot to 

graze. 
And, where the hedge-row cuts the pathway, 

stood. 
Leaning his horns into the neighbor field. 
And lowing to his fellows. F'rom the woods 
Came voices of the well-contented doves. 
The lark could scarce get out his notes for 

joy 
But shook his song together as he near'd 
His happy home, the ground. To left and 

right. 
The cuckoo told his name to all the hills ; 
The mellow ou/.el fluted in the elm ; 
The redcap whi«;tled ; and the nightingale 
Sang loud, as tho' he were the bird of day. 
And Eustace turu'd, and smiling said to 

me, 
" Hear how the bushes echo ! by my life, 
These birds have joyful thoughts. Think 

you they sing 
Like poets, from the vanity of song .'' 
Or have they any sense of why they sing? 
And would they praise the heavens for what 

they have ? " 



THE C.ARDF.NER'S DAUGHTER. 



And I made answer, " Were there nothing 

else 
For which to praise the heavens but only 

love. 
That only love were cause enough for praise." 
Lightly he laugh'd, as one that read my 

thought. 
And on we went ; but ere an hour had pass'd, 
We reach'd a meadow slanting to the North ; 
Down which a well-worn pathway courted us 
To one green wicket in a privet hedge ; 
This, yielding, gave into a grassy walk 
Thro' crowded lilac-ambush trimly pruned : 
And one warm gust, full-led with perfume, 

blew 
Beyond us, as we enter'd in the cool. 
'J'he garden stretches southward. In the midst 
A cedar spread Iiis d.irk-green layers of shade. 
The garden -glasses shone, and momently 
The twinkling laurel scatter'd silver lirhts. 
" Eustace," ] said, " this wonder keeps 

the house." 
He nodded, but a moment afterwards 
He cried, " Look ! look ! " Before he ceased 

I turu'd. 
And, ere a star can wink, beheld her there. 
For up the porch there grew an Eastern 

rose, 
That, flowering high, the last night's gale 

had caught. 
And blown across the walk. One arm aloft — 
Gown'd in pure white, that fitted to the 

shai>e — 
Holding the bush, to fix it back, she stood. 
A single stream of all her soft brown hair 
Pour'd on one side : the shadow ol the flowers 
Stole all the golden gloss, and, wavering 
Lovingly lower, trembled on her waist — 
Ah, happy shade — and still went wavering 

down. 
But, ere it touch'd a foot, that might have 

danced 
The greensward into greener circles, dipt. 
And mix'd with shadows of the common 

ground I 
But the full day dwelt on her brows, and 

sunn'd 
Her violet eyes, and all her Hebe-bloom, 
And doubled his own warmth against her lips. 
And on the bounteous wave of such a breast 
As never pencil drew. Half light, halfshade. 
She stood, a sight to make an old man young. 
So rapt, we near'd the house ; but she, a 

Rose 
In roses, mingled with her fragrant toil, 
Nor heard us come, nor from her tendance 

turn'd 
Into the world without ; till close at hand. 
And almost ere I knew mine own intent. 
This murmur broke the stillness of that air 
Which brooded round about her : 

"Ah, one rose. 
One rose, but one, by those fair fingers cull'd. 
Were worth a hundred kisses press'd on lips 
Less exquisite than thine." 

She look'd : but all 
Suffused with blushes — neither self-pos- 

scss'd 



THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER. 



43 



Nor stnrtled, but betwixt this mood and that, 

Divided in a graceful quiet — paused, 

And dropt the branch she held, and turning, 

wound 
Her looser hair in braid, and stirr'd her lips 
For some sweet answer, the' no answer came. 
Nor yet refused the rose, but granted it. 
And moved away, and left me, statue-like, 
In act to render thanks. 

I, that whole day. 
Saw her no more, altho' I linger'd there 
Till every daisy slept, and Love's white star 
Beain'd thro' the thicken'd cedar in the dusk. 
So home we went, and all the livelong way 
With solemn gibe did Eustace banter me. . 
"Now," said he, "will you climb the top of 

Art. 
You cannot fail but work in hues to dim 
The Titianic Flora. Will you match 
My Juliet? you, not you, — the Master, 

Love, 
A more ideal Artist he than all." 

So home 1 went, but could not sleep for joy, 
Reading her perfect features in the gloom, 
Kissing the rose she gave me o'er and o'er. 
And shaping faithful record of the glance 
That graced the giving — such a noise of life 
Swarm'd in the golden present, such a voice 
Call'd to me from the years to come, and such 
A length of bright horizon rimm'd the dark. 
And ail that night 1 heard the watchmen pe.il 
The sliding season : all that night I heard 
The heavy clocks knolling the drowsy hours. 
The drowsy hours, dispensers of all good. 
O'er the mute city stole with folded wings. 
Distilling odors on me as they went 
To gi'eet their fairer sisters of the East. 

Love at first sight, first-born, and heir to all, 
Made this night thus. Henceforward squall 

nor storm 
Could keep me from that Eden where she 

dwelt. 
Light prete.xts drew me : sometimes a Dutch 

love 
For tulips ; then for roses, moss or musk. 
To grace my city-rooms : or fruits and cream 
Served in the weeping elm ; and more and 

more 
A V'ord could bring the color to my cheek ; 
A thought would fill my eyes with happy 

dew ; 
Love trebled life within me, and with each 
The year increased. 

The daughters of the year. 
One after one, thro' that still garden pass'd : 
Each garlanded with her peculiar (lower 
Danced into light, and died into the shade ; 
And each in passing touch'd with some new 

grace 
Or seem'd to touch her, so that day by day. 
Like one that never can be wholly known. 
Her beauty grew; till Autumn brought an 

hour 
For Eustace, when I heard hisjleep " I will," 
Breathed, like the covenant of a God. to hold 
From thence thro' all the worlds : but I rose 

"P. 
Full of his bliss, and following her dark eyes 



Felt earth as air beneath me, till I reach'd 
The wicket-gate, and found her standing 

there. 
There sat we down upon a garden mound. 
Two mutually enfolded ; Love, the third, 
lietween us, in the circle of his arms 
Enwound us both ; and over many a range 
Of waning lime the gray cathedral towers, 
Across a hazy glimmer of the west, 
Reveal'd their shining windows : from them 

clash'd 
The bells ; we listen'd ; with the time we 

play'd ; 
We spoke of other things ; we coursed about 
The subject most at heart, more near and 

near, 
Like doves about a dovecote, wheeling round 
The central wish, until we settled there. 
Then, in that time and place, 1 spoke to 

her, 
Requiring, tho' I knew it was mine own, 
Yet for the pleasure that I took to hear. 
Requiring at her hand the greatest gift, 
A woman's heart, the heart of her I loved ; 
And in that time and place she answer'd me, 
And in the conipass of three little words. 
More musical than ever came in one, 
'I'he silver fragments of a broken voice. 
Made me most happy, faltering " I am 

thine." 
Shall I cease here .' Is this enough to say 
That my desire, like all strongest hopes. 
By its own energy fulfiU'd itself. 
Merged in completion? Would you learn at 

full_ 
How passion rose thro' circumstantial grades 
Beyond all grades develop'd? and indeed 
I had not srayed so long to tell you all, 
But while I mused came Memory with sad 

eyes. 
Holding the folded annals of my youth ; 
And while I mused. Love with knit brows 

went by. 
And with a flying finger swept my lips. 
And spake, " Be wise : not easily forgiven 
Are those, who, setting wide the doors that 

bar 
The secret bridal chambers of the heart, 
Let in the day." Here, then, my words have 

end. 
Yet might I tell of meetings, of farewells — 
Of tliat which came between, more sweet 

than each. 
In whispers, like the whispers of the leaves 
That tremble round a nightingale — in sighs 
Which perfect Joy, perpiex'd for utterance. 
Stole from her sister Sorrow. Might I not tell 
Of difference, reconcilement, pledges given. 
And vows, where there was never need of 

vows. 
And kisses, where the heart on one wild leap 
Hung tranced from all pulsation, as above 
I'he heavens between their fairy fleeces pale 
Sovv'd all their mystii gulfs with fleeting stars; 
Or while the balmy glooming, crescent-lit. 
Spread the light haze along the river-shores, 
And in the hollows ; or as once we met 
Unheedful, tho' beneath a whispering rain 



44 



DORA. 



Night slid down one long stream of sighing 

wind. 
And in her bosom bore the baby, Sleep. 
But this whole hour your eyes have bueii 

iuleiU 
On that veil'd picture — veil'd, for what it 

holds 
May not be dwelt on by the common day. 
This prelude has prepared thee. Raise thy 

soul ; 
Make thine heart ready with thine eyes ; the 

time 
Is come to raise the veil. 

Behold her there, 
As I beheld her ere she knew my heart, 
My first, last love ; the idol of my youth, 
The darling of my manhood, and, alas ! 
Now the most blessed memory of mine age. 



DORA. 

With farmer Allan at the farm abode 
William and Dora. William was his son, 
And she his niece. He often look'd at them. 
And often thought " I'll make them man and 

wife. ' 
Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all. 
And yearn'd towards William ; but the youth, 

because 
He had been always with her in the house, 
Thought not of Dora. 

Then there came a day 
When Allan call'd his son, and said, " My 

son : 
I married late, but I would wish to see 
My grandchild on my knees belore 1 die : 
And I have set my heart upon a match. 
Now therefore look to Dora ; she is well 
To look to ; thrifty too beyond her age. 
She is my brother's daughter : he and I 
Had once hard words, and parted, and he died 
In foreign lands ; but for his sake I bred 
His daughter Dora ; take her for your wife ; 
For I have wish'd this marriage, night and 

day, 
For many years." But William answer'd 

short : 
" I cannot marry Dora : by my life, 
I will not marry Dora." Then the old man 
Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and 

said : 
" You will not, boy ! you dare to answer thus I 
But in m> time a father's word was law. 
And so it shall be now for me. Look to it : 
Consider, William : take a month to think, 
And let me have an answer to my wish ; 
Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack, 
And never more darken my doors again." 
But William answer'd madly ; bit his lips. 
And broke away. The more he look'd at her 
The less he liked her; and his ways were 

harsh ; 
But Dora bore them meekly. Then before 
The month was out he left his father's house, 
And hired himself to work within the fields ; 
And half in love, half spite, he woo'd and wed 
A laborer's daughter, Mary Morrison. 



Then, when the bells were ringmg, Allan 

call'd 
His niece and said : " My girl, I love you well : 
I'.iit if ynu i.peak with him that was my sun, 
Or change a word with her he calls his wife, 
My home is none of yours. i\Jiy will is law." 
And Dora promised, being meek. She 

thought, 
" It cannot be: m^ uncle'smind will change !*' 
And days went on, and there was born a boy 
To William : then distresses came on him ; 
And day by day he pass'd his father's gate, 
Heart-broken, and his father help'd him not, 
Hut Dora stored what little she could save. 
And sent it them by stealth, nor did they 

know 
Who sent it ; till at last a fever seized 
On William, and in harvest time he died. 

Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat 
And look'd with tears upon her boy, and 

thought 
Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said : 

" 1 have obey'd my uncle until now. 
And I have sinn'd, for it was all thro' me 
This evil came on William at the first. 
But, Mary, (or the sake of him that 's gone, 
And for your sake, the woman that he chose. 
And for this orphan, I am come to you : 
You know there has not been for these five 

vears 
So full a harvest : let me take the boy, 
And I will set him in my uncle's eye 
Among the wheat ; that when his heart isglad 
Of the full harvest, he may see the boy. 
And bless him for the sake of him that ''s 

gone." 
And Dora took the child, and went her way 
Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound 
That was unsown, where many poppies grew. 
Far off the farmer came into the field 
And spied her not ; for none of all his men 
Dare tell him Dora waited with the child ; 
And Dora would have risen and gone to him. 
But her heart fail'd her ; and the reapers 

reap'd. 
And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. 
But when the morrow came, she rose and 
took 
The child once more, and sat upon the mound; 
And made a little wreath of all the flowers 
That grew about, and tied it round his hat 
To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye. 
Then when the farmer pass'd into the field 
He spied her, and he left his men at work, 
And came and said : " Where were you yes- 
terday ? 
Whose child is that ! What are you doing 

here ? " 
So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground, 
And answer'd softly, "This is William's 

child !" 
"And did I not," said Allan, "did I not 
Forbid you, Dora ? " Dora said again, 
" Do with ma as you will, but take the child 
And bless him for the sake of him that 's 

gone !" 
And Allan said, " I see it is a trick 
Got up betwixt you and the woman there. 




" I have been to blame, to blame ; I have kill'd my son, 
I have kill'd him 1 But 1 loved him, — my dear son ! ' 



AUDLEY COURT. 



43 



I must be taught my duty, and by you ! 
You knew my word was law, and yet you 

dared 

To slight it. Well — for I will take the boy : 

But go you hence, and never see me more." 

So saying, he took the boy, that cried aloud 

And struggled hard. The wreath of flowers 

fell ^ 
At Dora's feet. She bow'd upon her hands, 
And the boy's cry came to her from the field. 
More and more distant. She bow'd down 

her head, 
Remembering the day when first she came, 
And all the things that had been. She 

bow'd down 
And wept in secret ; and the reapers reap'd. 
And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. 
Then Dora went to Mary's house, and 

stood 
Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy 
Was not with Dora. She broke out in praise 
To God, that help'd her in her widowhood. 
And Dora said, " My uncle took the boy ; 
But, Mary, let me live and work with you : 
He says that he will never see me more." 
Then answer'd Mary, "This shall never be, 
That thou shouldst take my trouble on thy- 
self: 
And, now I think, he shall not have the boy, 
For he will teach him hardness, and to slight 
His mother ; therefore thou and I will go 
And I will have my boy, and bring him home ; 
And I will beg of him to take thee back ; 
But if he will not take thee back again. 
Then thou and I will live within one house. 
And work for William's child, until he grows 
Of age to help us." 

So the women kiss'd 
Each other, and set out, and reach'd the 

farm. 
The door was off the latch : they peep'd, and 

saw 
The boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knees, 
Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm, 
Andclapt him on the hands and on the cheeks. 
Like one that loved him ; and the lad 

stretch'd out 
And babbled for the golden seal, that hung 
From Allan's watch, and sparkled by the 

fire. 
Then they came in : but when the boy 

beheld 
His mother, he cried out to come to her : 
And Allan set him down, and Mary said : 

" O Father — if you let me call you so — 
I never came a-begging for myself. 
Or William, or this child ; but now I come 
For Dora : take her back ; she loves you 

well. 

Sir, when William died, he died at peace 
With all men ; for I ask'd him, and he said. 
He coiild not ever rue his marrying me — 

1 had been a patient wife : but. Sir, he said 
That he was wrong to cr jss his father thus : 
'God bless him!' he said, 'and may he 

never know 
The troubles I have gone thro' 1' Then he 
turu'd 



His face and pass'd — unhappy that I am ! 
But now. Sir, let me have my boy, for you 
Will make him hard, and he will learn to 

slight 
His father's memory ; and take Dora back. 
And let all this be as it was before." 

So Mary said, and Dora hid her face 
By Mary. There was silence in the room ; 
And all at once the old man burst in sobs : 
"I have been to blame — to blame. I 

have kill'd my son. 
I have kill'd him — but I loved him — my 

dear son. 
May God forgive me ! — I have been to blame. 
Kiss me, my children." 

Then thej clung about 
The old man's neck, and kiss'd him many 

times. 
And all the man was broken with remorse ; 
And all his love came back a hundred fold ; 
And for three hours he sobb'd o'er William's f 

child. 
Thinking of William. 

So those four abode 
Within one house together; and as years 
Went forward, Mary took another mate ; 
But Dora lived unmarried till her death. \, 



AUDLEY COURT. 

"The Bull, the Fleece are cramra'd, and 

not a room 
For love or money. Let us picnic there 
At Audley Court." 

I spoke, while Audley feast 
Humm'd like a hive all round the narrow 

quay, _ 
To Francis, with a basket on his arm. 
To Francis just alighted from the boat. 
And breathing of the sea. " With all my 

heart," 
Said Francis. Then we shoulder'd thro' the 

swarm. 
And rounded by the stillness of the beach 
To where the bay runs up its latest horn. 

We left the dying ebb that faintly lipp'd 
The flat red granite ; so by many a sweep 
Of meadow smooth from aftermath we reach'd 
The griffin-guarded gates, and pass'd thro' 

all 
The pillar'd dusk of sounding sycamores. 
And cross'd the garden to the gardener's 

lodge. 
With all its casements bedded, and its walls 
And chimneys muffled in the leafy vine. 

There, on a slope of orchard, Francis laid 
A damask napkin wrought with horse and 

hound, 
Brought out a dusky loaf that smelt of home, 
And, half-cut-down, a pasty costly made. 
Where quail and pigeon, lark and leveret lay. 
Like fossils of the rock, with golden yolks 
Imbedded and injellied ; last, with these, 
A flask of cider from his father's vats. 
Prime, which I knew; and so we sat and eat 
And talk'd old matters over: wlio was dead, 
Who married, who was like to be, and how 



46 



WALKING r'O THE MAIL. 



The races went, and who would rent the hall : 
Then touch'd upon the game, how scarce it 

was 
This season ; glancing thence, discuss'd the 

farm, 
The fuurfield system, and the price of grain ; 
And struck upon the corn-laws, where we 

split. 
And came again together on the king 
With heated faces ; till he laugh'd aloud ; 
y\ik1, while the blackbird on the pippin hung 
Tu hear liini, clapt his hand in mine and 
\ sang : 

" O, who would fight and march and 
countermarch. 
Be shot for sixpence in a battle-field. 
And shoveli'd up into a bloody trench 
Where no one knows? but let me live my 
life. 
" O, who would cast and balance at a desk, 
Perch'd like a crow upon a three-legg'd stool. 
Till all his juice is dried, and ail his joints 
Are full of chalk? but let me live my life. 
"Who'd serve the state? for if I carved 
my name 
Upon the cliffs that guard my native land, 
I might as well have traced it in the sands ; 
The sea wastes all : but lei me live my life. 
" O, who would love ? I woo'd a woman 
once. 
But she was sharper than an eastern wind. 
And all my heart turn'd t'rom her, as a thorn 
Turns from the sea : but let me live my 
life."_ 
He .sang his song, and I replied with mine: 
I found it in a volume, all of songs, 
Knock'd down to me, when old Sir Robert's 

pride. 
His books — the more the pity, so I said — 
Came to the hammer here in March — and 

this — 
I set the words, and added names I knew. 
" Sleep, Ellen Aubrey, sleep, and dream 
of me : 
Sleep, Ellen, folded in thy sister's arm, 
And sleeping, haply dream her arm is mine. 

" Sleep, Ellen, folded in Emilia's arm; 
Emilia, fairer than all else but thou. 
For thou art fairer than all else that is. 
"Sleep, breathing health and peace upon 
her breast : 
Sleep, breathing love and trust against her 

lip: 
I go to-night : 1 come to-morrow mom. 
" I go, but I return : I would I were 
The pilot of the darkness and the dream. 
Sleep, Ellen Aubrey, love, and dream of 
me." 
So sang we each to either, Francis Hale, 
The farmer's son who lived across the bay. 
My friend ; and I. tliat having wherewithal. 
And in the fallow leisure of my life, 
Did what 1 would : but ere the night we 

rose 
And saunter'd home beneath a moon, that, 

just 
In crescent, dimly rain'd about the haf 
Twilights of a'.ry silver, till we reach' d 



The limit of the hills ; and as we sank 
From rock to rock upon the glooming quay, 
'I'he town was hush'd beneath us: lower 

down 
'J'lie bay was oily-calm ; the harbor-buoy 
With one green sparkle ever and anon 
Dipt by itself, and we were glad at heart. 



WALKING TO THE MAIL. 

John. I 'm glad I walk'd. How fresh the 
meadows look 
Above the river, and, but a month ago. 
The whole hillside was redder than a fox. 
Is you plantation where this byway joins 
The turnpike? 

James. Yes. 

John. And when does this come by? 

James. The mail? At one o'clock. 
John. What is it now ? 

James. A quarter to. 
John. Whose house is that I see ? 

No, not the County Member's with the vane : 
Up higher with the yewtree by it, and half 
A score of gables. 

James. That? Sir Edv.-ard Head's : 

But he 's abroad : the place is to be sold. 
John. O, his. He was not broken. 
Jaines. No, sir, he, 

Vex'd with a morbid devil in his blood 
'J'liat veil'd the world with jaundice, hid his 

face 
p'rom all men, and commercing with himself, 
He lost the sense that handles daily life — 
That keeps us all in order more or less — 
And sick of home went overseas for change. 
John. And whitl.er? 
James Nay, who knows? he's here and 
there. 
But let him go ; his devil goes with him. 
As well as with his tenant, Jocky Dawes. 
John. What's that? 
Ju7iies. You saw the man — on Monday, 
was it ? — 
There by the humpback'd willow ; half stands 

up 
And bristles; half has fall'n and made a 

bridge ; 
And there he caught the younker tic'.. ling 

trout — 
Caught in JIagfanie — ^\\a.t''% the Latin 

word ? — 
Delicto : but his house, for so they say. 
Was haunted with a jolly ghost, that shook 
The curtains, whined in lobbies, tapt ai 

doors. 
And rummaged like a rat : nc servant stay'd ; 
'I'he farmer vext packs up his beds and 

chairs. 
And all his household stuff: and with his boy 
Betwixt his knees, his wife upon the tilt. 
Sets out, and meets a friend who hails him, 

" What i 
You 're flitting ! " " Yes, we 're fiitting," say* 

the ghost, 
(For they had pack'd the thing among th» 
beds,) 



EDWIN MORRIS. 



47 



"O well," says he, "you flitting with us 

too — 
Jack, turn the horses' heads and home 

again." 
John. He left his wife behind ; for so I 

heard. 
Jatnes. He left her, yes. I met my lady 

once : 
A woman like a butt, and harsh as crabs. 
Johti.. O yet but 1 remember, ten years 

back — 
'T is now at least ten years — and then she 

was — 
You could not light upon a sweeter thing : 
A body slight and round, and like a pear 
In growing, modest eyes, a hand, a foot 
Lessening in perfect cadence, and a skin 
As clean and white as privet when it flowers. 
Jam's. Ay, ay, the blossom fades, and 

they that loved 
At first like dove and dove were cat and dog. 
She was the daughter of a cottager. 
Out of her sphere. What betwixt shame and 

pride. 
New things and old, himself and her, she 

sour'd 
To what she is : a nature never kind ! 
Like men, like manners : like breeds like, 

they say. 
Kind nature is the best : those manners next 
That fit us like a nature second-hand ; 
Which are indeed the manners of the great. 
John. But I had heard it was this bill 

that past. 
And fear of change at home, that drove him 

hence. 
Jatnes. That was the last drop in his cup 

of gall. 
I once was near him, when his bailiff brought 
A Chartist pike. You should have seen him 

wince 
As from a venomous thing : he thought him- 
self 
A mark for all, and shudder'd, lest a cry 
Should break his sleep by night, and his nice 

eyes 
Should see the raw mechanic's bloody thumbs 
Sweat on his blazou'd chairs ; but, sir, you 

know 
That these two parties still divide the world — 
Of those that want, and those that have : and 

still 
The same old sore breaks out from age to age 
With much the same result. Now I myself, 
A Tory to the quick, was as a boy 
Destructive, when I had not what I would. 
I was at school — a college in the South : 
Tliere lived a flayflint near ; we stole his fruit. 
His hens, his eggs ; but there was law for us ; 
We paid in person. He had a sow, sir. She, 
With meditative grants of much content. 
Lay great with pig, wallowing in sun and 

mud. 
By night we dragg'd her to the college tower 
From her warm bed, and up the corkscrew 

stair 
With hand and rope we haled the groaning 

sow, 



And on the lead.^ we kept her till she pigg'd. 
Large range of pro.spect had the mother sow. 
And but for daily loss of one she loved, 
As one by one we took them — but for this — 
As never sow was higher in this world — 
Might have been happy: but what lot is 

pure ? 
We took them all, till she was left alone 
Upon her tower, the Niobe of swine. 
And so return'd unfarrow'd to her sty. 

Jolin. They found you out? 

James. Not they. 

J.'hn. Well — after all— 

What know we of the secret of a man? 
His nerves were wrong. What ails us, who 

are sound. 
That we should mimic this raw fool the 

world. 
Which cliarts us all in its coarse blacks or 

whites. 
As ruthless as a baby with a worm, 
As cruel as a schoolboy ere he grows 
To Pity — more from ignorance than will. 

But put your best foot forward, or I fear 
That we shall miss the mail : and here it 

comes 
With five at top : as quaint a four-in-hand 
As you shall see — three piebalds and a roan. 



EDWIN MORRIS; OR, THE LAKE. 

O ME, my pleasant rambles by the lake. 
My sweet, wild, fresh three quarters of a 

year. 
My one Oasis in the dust and drouth 
Of city life ; I was a sketcher then : 
See here, my doing: curves of mountain, 

bridge. 
Boat, island, ruins of a castle, built 
When men knew how to build, upon a rock. 
With turrets lichen-gilded like a rock : 
And here, new-comers in an ancient hold, 
New-comers from the Mersey, millionnaires. 
Here lived the Hills — a Tudor-chimneyed 

bulk 
Of mellow brickwork on an isle of bowers. 

O me, my pleasant rambles by the lake 
With Edwin Morris and with Edward Bull 
The curate ; he was fatter than his cure. 

But Edwin Morris, he that knew the 

names. 
Long learned names of agaric, moss, and 

fern. 
Who forged a thousand theories of tha rocks, 
Who taught me how to skate, to row, to swim, 
Who read me rhymes el.iborately good. 
His own — I call'd him Crichlon, for he 

seem'd 
All-perfect, finish'd to the finger nail. 

And once I ask'd him of his early life. 
And his first passion : and he aiisyv'er'd me ; 
And well his words became him : was he not 
A fall-cell'd honeycomb of eloquence 
Stored from all fiowers? Poet-like he spoke. 



EDWIN MORRIS. 



" My love for Nature is as o)d as I ; 
But thirty moons, one honeymoon to that, 
And tliree ricli senniglUs more, my love for 

her. 
My love for Nature and my love for her, 
Of different ages, like twin-sisters grew. 
Twin-sisters differently beautiful. 
To some full music rose and sank the sun, 
And some full music seem'd to move and 

change 
With all the varied changes of the dark. 
And either twilight and the day between ; 
For daily hope fulfjll'd, to rise again 
Revolving toward fulfilment, made it sweet 
To walk, to sit, to sleep, to breathe, to wake." 

Or this or something like to this he spoke. 
Then said the fat-faced curate, Edward Bull : 

" I take it, God made the woman for the 
man. 
And for the good and increase of the world. 
A pretty face is well, and this is well, 
To have a dame indoors, that trims us up. 
And keeps us tight ; but these unreal ways 
Seem but the theme of writers, and indeed 
Worn threadbare. Man is made ot solid stuff. 
I say, God made the woman for the man. 
And for the good and increase of the world." 

"Parson," said I, "you pitch the pipe too 

low : 
But I have sudden touches, and can run 
My faith beyond my practice into his : 
Tho' if, in dancing 'after Letty Hill, 
] do not hear the bells upon my cap, 
I scarce hear other music : yet say on. 
What should one give to light on such a 

dream ? " 
I ask'd him half-sardonically. 

"Give? 
Give all thou art," he answer'd, and a light 
Of laughter dimpled in his swarthy cheek ; 
" I would have hid her needle in my heart. 
To save her little finger from a scratch 
No deeper than the skin : my ears could hear 
Her lightest breaths : her least remark was 

worth 
The experience of the wise. I went and 

came ; 
Her voice fled always thro' the summer land ; 
I spoke her name alone. Thrice-happy days ! 
The flower of each, those moments when we 

met. 
The crown of all, we met to part no more." 

Were not his words delicious, I a beast 
To take them as I did ? but something jarr'd ; 
Whether he spoke too largely ; that there 

seem'd 
A touch of something false, some self-conceit. 
Or over-smoothness : howsoe'er it was. 
He scarcely hit my humor, and I said : 

" Friend, Edwin, do not think yourself 
alone 
Of all men happy. Shall not Love to me. 
As in the Latin song 1 learnt at school, 



Sneeze out a full God-blcss-you right and 

left? 
But you can talk : yours is a kindly vein* 
I have, I think, — Heaven knows — as much 

within ; 
Have, or should have, but for a thought or 

two, 
That like a purple beech among the greens 
Looks out of place : 't is from no want in her : 
It is my shyness, or my self-distrust. 
Or something of a wayward modern mind 
Dissecting passion. Time will set me right." 

So spoke I knowing not the things that 

were. 
Then said the fat-faced curate, Edward Bull : 
" God made the woman for the use of man. 
And for the good and increase of the world." 
And I and Edwin laugh'd ; and uo-v we 

paused 
About the windings of the marge to liear 
The soft wind blowing over meadowy holn.s 
And alders, carden-isles ; and now we left 
The clerk behind us, I and he, and ran 
By ripply shallows of the lisping lake. 
Delighted with the freshness and the sound. 

But, when the bracken rusted on their 

crags. 
My suit had wither'd, nipt to death by him 
That was a God, and is a lawyer's clerk, 
The rentroll Cupid of our rainy is^es. 
'T is true, we met ; one hour I had, no more: 
She sent a note, the seal an Elle vous suit. 
The close " Your Letty, only yours " ; and 

this 
Thrice underscored. The friendly mist of 

morn 
Clung to the lake. I boated over, ran 
My craft aground, and heard with beating 

heart 
The Sweet-Gale rustle round the shelving 

keel: 
And out I slept, and up I crept ; she moved, 
Like Proserpine in Enna, gathering (lowers : 
Then low and sweet 1 whistled thrice ; and 

she. 
She turn'd, we closed, we kiss'd, swore faith, 

I breathed 
In some new placet : a silent cousin stole 
Upon us and departed : " Leave," she cried, 
" O leave me I " " Never, dearest, never : 

here 
I brave the worst " : and while we stood like 

fools 
Embracing, all at once a score of pugs 
And poodles yell'd within, and out they 

came 
Trustees and Aunts and Uncles. " What, 

with him ! " 
" Go " (shrill'd the cottonspinning chorus) 

" him ! " 
I choked. Again they shriek'd the burthen 

"Him!" 
Again with hands of wild rejection " Go I — 
Girl, get you in ! " She went — and in one 

month 
They wedded her to sixty thousand pounds, 



ST. SIMEON STYLITES. 



49 



To lands in Kent and messuages in York, 

And slight Sir Robert with his watery smile 

And educated whisker. But for me, 

They set an ancient creditor to work : 

It seems I broke a close with force and arms : 

Tiiere came a mystic token from the king 

To greet the sheriff, needless courtesy ! 

\ read, and fled by night, and fiying turn'd : 

Her taper glimmer'd in the lake below : 

I turn'd once more, close button'd to the 

storm ; 
So left the place, left Edwin, nor have seen 
Him since, nor heard of her, nor cared to 

hear. 
Nor cared to hear ? perhaps : yet long ago 
I have pardon'd little Letty : not indeed, 
It may be, for her own dear sake but this. 
She seems a part of those fresh days to me ; 
For in the dust and drouth of London life 
She moves among my visions of the lake. 
While the prime swallow dips his wing, or 

then 
While the gold-lily blows, and overhead 
The light cloud smoulders on the summer 

crag. 



ST. SIMEON STYLITES. 

Altho' I be the basest of mankind, 

From scalp to sole one slough and crust of 

sin, 
Unfit for earth, unfit for heaven, scarce meet 
For troops of devils, mad with blasphemy, 
I will not cease to grasp the hope I hold 
Of saintdom, and to clamor, mourn, a:id sob, 
Battering the gates of heaven with storms of 

prayer. 
Have mercy. Lord, and take away my sin. 

Let this avail, just, dreadful, mighty God, 
This not be all in vain, that thrice ten years, 
Thrice multiplied by superhuman pangs. 
In hungers and in thirsts, fevers and cold, 
In coughs, aches, stitches, ulcerous throes 

and cramps, 
A sign betwixt the meadow and the cloud, 
Patient on this tall pillar I have borne 
Rain, wind, frost, heat, hail, damp, and sleet, 

and snow ; 
And I had hoped that ere this period closed 
Thou wouldst have caught me up into thy 

rest. 
Denying not these weather-beaten limbs 
The meed of saints, the white robe and the 

palm. 
O take the meaning. Lord : I do not 

breathe. 
Not whisper any murmur of complaint, 
Pain heap'd ten-hundred-fold to this, were 

still 
Less burthen, by ten-hundred-fold, to bear. 
Than were those lead-like tons of sin, that 

crush'd 
My spirit flat before thee. 

O Lord, Lord, 
Thouknowest I bore this better at the first. 
For I was strong and hale of body tlien ; 
And tho' my teeth, which now are dropt away, 



Would chatter with the cold, and all my 

beard 
Was tagg'd with icy fringes in the moon, 
I drowii'd the whoopings of the owl with 

sound 
Of pious hymns and psalms, and sometimes 

saw 
An angel stand and watch me, as I sang. 
Now am I feeble grown; my end draws 

nigh ; 
I hope my end draws nigh : half deaf I am, 
So that I scarce can hear the people hum 
About the column's base, and almost blind. 
And scarce can recognize the fields I know ; 
And both my thighs are rotted with the dew; 
Yet cease I not to clamor and to cry, 
While my stiff spine can hold my weary head. 
Till all my limbs drop piecemeal from the 

stone. 
Have mercy, mercy : take away my sin. 

O Jesus, if thou wilt not save my soul, 
Who may be saved? who is it may be saved? 
Who may be made a saint, if I fail here? 
Show me the man hath suffer'd more than I. 
For did not all thy martyrs die one death ? 
For either they were stoned, or crucified. 
Or burn'd in fire, or boil'd in oil, or sawn 
In twain beneath the ribs ; but I die here 
Today, and whole years long, a life of death. 
Bear witness, if I could have found a way 
(And heedfully I sifted all my thought) 
More slowly-painful to subdue this home 
Of sin, my flesh, which I despise and hate, 
\ had not stinted practice, O my God. 

For not alone this pillar-punishment, 
Not this alone I bore : but while I lived 
In the white convent down the valley there. 
For many weeks about my loins I wore 
The rope that haled the buckets from the well. 
Twisted as tight as I could knot the noose ; 
And spake not of it to a single soul. 
Until the ulcer, eating thro' my skin, 
Betray'd my secret penance, so that all 
My brethren marvell'd greatly. More than 

this 
I bore, whereof, O God, thou knowest all. 
Three winters, that my soul might grow to 

thee, 
I lived up there on yonder moimtain side. 
My right leg chain'd into the crag, I lay 
Pent in a rootless close of ragged stones ; 
Inswathed sometimes in wandering mist, 

and twice 
Black'd with thy branding thunder, and 

sometimes 
Sucking the damps for drink, and eating not. 
Except the spare chance-gift of those that 

came 
To touch my body and be heal'd, and live : 
And they say then that I work'd miracles, 
Whereof my fame is loud amongst man- 
kind. 
Cured lameness, palsies, cancers. Thou, O 

God, 
Knowest alone whether this was or no. 
Have mercy, mercy ; cover all my sin. 
Then, that I might be more aloiie with 

thee, 



so 



ST. SIMEON STYLITES. 



Three years I lived upon a pillar, high 

Six cubits, and three years on one of twelve ; 

And twice three years I crouch'd on one that 

rose 
Twenty by measure ; last of all, I grew, 
Twice ten long weary weary years to this, 
That numbers forty cubits from the soil. 
1 think that I have borne as much as 

this — 
Or else I dream — and for so long a time, 
If 1 may measure time by yon slow light. 
And this high dial, which my sorrow 

crowns — 
So much — even so. 

And yet I know not well, 
For that the evil ones come here, and say, 
" Fall down, O Simeon : thou hast suffer'd 

long 
For ages and for ages ! " then they prate 
Of penances I cannot have gone thro', 
Perplexing me with lies ; and oft 1 fall, 
Maybe for months, in such blind lethargies, 
That Heaven, and Earth, and Time are 

choked. 

But yet 
Bethink thee, Lord, while thou and all the 

saints 
Enjoy themselves in heaven, and men on 

earth 
House in the shade of comfortable roofs. 
Sit with their wives by fires, eat wholesome 

food. 
And wear warm clothes, and even beasts 

have stalls, 
I, 'tween the spring and downfall of the light, 
Bow down one thousand and two hundred 

times. 
To Christ, the Virgin Mother, and the 

Saints ; 
Or in the night, after a little sleep, 
I wake : the chill stars sparkle ; I am wet 
With drenching dews, or stiff with crackling 

frost, 
I wear an undress'd goatskin on my back ; 
A grazing iron collar grinds my neck ; 
And in my weak, lean arms I lift the cross, 
And strive and wrestle with thee till I die : 

mercy, mercy 1 wash away my sin. 

O Lord, thou knowest what a man I am ; 
A sinful man, conceived and born in sin : 
'T is their own doing ; this is none of nunc ; 
■ Lay it not to me. Am I to blame for this, 
That here come those that worship me ? Ha ! 

ha! 
They think that I am somewhat. What 

am I? 
The silly people take me for a saint, 
And bring me offerings of fruit and flowers : 
And I, in truth (thou wilt bear witnes.s here) 
Have all in all endured as much, and more 
Than many just and holy men, whose names 
Are register'd and calendar'd for saints. 

Clood people, you do ill to kneel lo me. 
What is it 1 can have done to merit this ! 

1 am a sinner viler than you all. 

It may be I have wrouglit some miracles. 
And cured some halt and uiaiui'd ; but what 
of that .' 



It may be, no one, even among the saints, 
]\I;iy match his pains with miue ; but what 

of that? 
Yef do not rise : for you may look on me, 
And in your looking you may kneel to God. 
Sj-cak ! is there any of you halt or maim'd ? 
I think you know 1 have some power with 

Heaven 
From my long penance : let him speak his 

wish. 
Yes, I can heal him. Power goes forth 

from me. 
They say that they are heal'd. Ah, hark I 

they shout 
" St. Simeon Stylites." Why, if so, 
God reaps a harvest in me. O my .soul, 
God reaps a harvest in thee. If this be. 
Can I work mir.acles and not be saved? 
This is not told of any. They were saints. 
It cannot be but that I shall be saved ; 
Yea, crown'd a saint. They shout, "Behold 

a saint ! " 
And lower voices saint me from above. 
Courage, St. Simeon ! This dull chrysalis 
Cracks into shining wings, and hope ere death 
Spreads more and more and more, that God 

hath now 
Sponged and made blank of crimeful record 

"all ^ 

My mortal archives. 

O my sons, my sons^ 
I, Simeon of the pillar, by surname 
Stylites, among men ; I, Simeon, 
The watcher on the column till the end ; 
I, Simeon, whose brain the sunsliine bakes; 
f , whose bald brows in silent hours become 
Unnaturally hoar with rime, do now 
From my high nest of penance here proclaim 
That Pontius and Iscariot by my side 
Show'd like fair seraphs. On the coals I 

lay, 
A vessel full of sin : all hell beneath 
Made me boil over. Devils pluck'd my 

sleeve ; 
Abaddon and Asmodeus caught at me. 
1 smote them with the cross ; they swarm'd 

again. 
In bed like monstrous apes they crush'd my 

chest : 
They flapp'd my light out as I read : I saw 
Their faces grow between me and my book: 
With colt-like whinny and with hoggish 

whine 
They burst mv prayer. Yet this wav was 

left. 
And by this way I 'scaped them. Mortify 
Your flesh, like me, with scourges and with 

thorns ; 
Smite, shrink not, sp.ire not. Ifitmaybe, 

fast 
Whole Lents, and pray. I hardly, with slowr 

steps. 
With slow, faint steps, and nujch exceeding 

pain, 
Have scrambled past those pits of fire, that 

still 
Sing in mine ears. But yield not me the 

praise : 



THE TALKING OAK. 



God only tliro' bis bounty hath thought fit, 
Among the powers and princes of this world, 
To make me au example to mankind, 
Wliicli few can reach to. Yet I do not say 
But tliat a time may come — yea, even now, 
Now now, his footsteps smite the threshold 

stairs 
Oflife — I say, that time is at the doors 
When you may worship me without leproach ; 
For I will leave my relics in your land, 
And you may carve a shrine about my dust. 
And burn a fragrant lamp before my bones, 
Wlien I am gather'd to the gloriouLS samts. 

While I spake then, a stingof shrewdest pain 
Ran shrivelling thro' me, and a cloud-like 

change. 
In passing, with a grosser fdm made thick 
'l'he<;e heavy, horny eyes. The end ! the end ! 
Surely the end! What's here? a shape, a 

shade, 
A flash of light. Is that the angel there 
That holds a crown ? Come, blessed brother, 

come. 
I know thy glittering face. I waited long ; 
My brows are ready. What ! deny it now? 
Nay, draw, draw, draw nigh. So I clutch it. 

Christ ! 
'T is gone : 't is here again : the crown ! the 

crown ! 
So now 't is fitted on and grows to me, 
And from it melt the dewsof Par.adise, 
Sweet ! sweet ! spikenard, and balm, and 

frankincense. 
Ah ! let me not be fool'd, sweet saints : I trust 
That 1 am whole, and clean, and meet for 

Heaven. 
Speak, if there be a priest, a man of God, 
Amoiig you there, and let him presently 
Approach, and le.an a ladder on the shaft. 
And climbing up into my airy home. 
Deliver me the blessed sacrament ; 
For by the warning of the Holy Ghost, 
1 prophesy that I shall die to-night, 
A quarter before twelve. 

But thou, O Lord, 
Aid all this foolish people ; let them take 
Example, pattern ; lead them to thy light. 



THE TALKING OAK. 

Once more the gate behind me falls ; 

Once more before my face 
I .see the moulder'd Abbey-walls, 

That stand within the chace. 

Leyond the lodge the city lies, 

Beneath its drift of smoke ; 
And ah ! with what delighted eyes 

I turn to yonder oak. 

For when mv passion first began. 
Ere that, \vhich in me burn'd, 

'I'he love, that makes me thrice a man. 
Could hope itself return'd ; 

To yonder oak within the field 
1 spoke without vestramt. 



And with a larger faith appeal'd 
Than Papist unto Saint. 

For oft I talk'd with him apart. 

And told him of my choice. 
Until he plagiarized a heart, 

And answer'd with a voice. 

Tho' what he whisper'd, under Heaven 

None else could understand ; 
I loiuid him garrulously given, 

A babbler in the land. 

But since I heard him make reply 

Is many a weary hour ; 
'T were well to question him, and try 

If yet he keeps the power. 

Hail, hidden to the kneee in fern, 

Ihuad Oak of Sumner-cnace, 
Whose topmost branches ca.a discern 

The roofs of Sumnet place I 

Say thou, whereon I car\ed hef name. 

If ever maid or spouse. 
As fair as my Olivia, came 

To rest beneath thy bougl.s. — 

" O Walter, I have shelter'd hi-re 

Whatever maiden grace 
The good old Summers, year by y^a:. 

Made ripe in Sumner-chace : 

" Old Summers, when the monk was >"-* 
And, issuing shorn and sleek, 

V/ould twist his girdle tight, and pat 
The girls upon the cheek, 

" Ere yet, in scorn of Peter's-pence, 
And number'd bead and shrift, 

Bluff Harry broke into the spence, 
And turn'd the cowls ad ift : 

" And I have seen some score of those 
Fresh faces that would thrive 

When his man-minded offset rose 
To chase the deer at five ; 

' And all that from the town would stroll, 
Till that wild wind made work 

In which the gloomy brewer's soul 
Went by me, like a stork : 

" The slight she-slips of loyal blood, 

And others, passing praise, 
Strait-laced, but all-too-fuU in bud 

For puritanic stays : 

" And I have shadow'd many a group 

Of beauties that were born 
In teacup-times of hood and hoop. 

Or while the patcli was worn ; 

" And, leg and arm with love-knots gay. 
About me leap'd and laugh'd 

The modish Cupid of the day. 
And shrill'd his tinsel shaft. 



THE TALKING OAK. 



" I swear (and else may insects prick 

Each leaf into a gall) 
This j;irl, for whom your heart is sick, 
:,' Is three times worth them all ; 

- " For those and theirs, by Nature's law. 
Have faded long ago ; 
But in these latter springs I saw 
Your own Olivia blow, 

" From when she gamboll'd on the greens, 

A baby-germ, to when 
The maiden blossoms of her teens 

Could number five from ten. 

" I swear, by leaf, and wind, and rain, 
(And hear me with thine ears,) 

That, tho' I circle in the grain 
Five hundred rings of years — 

" Yet, since I first could cast a shade, 

Did never creature pass 
So slightly, musically made. 

So light upon the grass : 

" For as to fairies, that will flit 
To make the greensward fresh, 

I hold them exquisitely Unit, 
But far too spare of flesh." 

O, hide thy knotted knees in fern. 

And overlook the chace ; 
And from thy topmost branch discern 

The roofs of Sumner-piace. 

But thou, whereon I carved her name. 

That oft hast heard my vows. 
Declare when last Olivia came 

To sport beneath thy boughs. 

" O yesterday, you know, the fair 

Was holden at the town : 
Her father left his good arm-chair, 

And rode his hunter down. 

" And with him Albert came on his, 

I look'd at him with joy : 
As cowslip unto oxlip is. 

So seems she to the boy. 

"An hour had past — and, sitting straight 
Within the low-wheel'd chaise. 

Her mother trundled to the gate 
Behind the dappled grays. 

" But, as for her, she stay'd at home, 

And on the roof she went. 
And down the way you use to come 

She look'd with discontent. 

" She left the novel half-uncut 

Upon the rosewood shelf; 
She left tho ni-w iiiano sluif : 

She could not please herself. 

" Then ran she, gamesome as the colt, 
And livelier than a lark 



She sent her voice thro' all the holt 
Before her, and the park. 

" A light wind chased her on the wing, 

And in the chase grew wild, 
As close as might be v.'ould he cling 

About the darling child : 

" But light as any wind that blows 

So lleetly did she stir, 
The flower, she touch'd on, dipt and rose. 

And turn'd to look at her. 

" And here she came, and round me play'd, 

And sang to me the whole 
Of those three stanzas that you made 

About my ' giant bole ' ; 

" And in a fit of frolic mirth 

She strove to span my waist : 
Alas, I was so broad of girth, 

I could not be embraced. 

" I wish'd myself the fair young beech 

That here beside me stands. 
That round me, clasping each in each, 

She might have lock'd her hands. 

" Yet seem'd the pressm-e thrice a; sweet 

As woodbine's fragile hold. 
Or wlien I feel about my feet 

The berried briony fold." 

O muffle round thy knees with fern, 

And shadow Sumner-chace ! 
Long may thy topmost branch discern 

The roofs of Sumner-place 1 

But tell me, did she read the name 

I carved with many vows 
When last with throbbing heart I came 

To rest beneath thy boughs ? 

" O yes, she wandcr'd round and round 

These knotted knees of mine. 
And found, and kiss'd the name she found, 

And sweetly murmur'd thine. 

"A teardrop trembled from its source. 

And down my surface crept. 
My sense of touch is something coarse, 

But I believe she wept. 

"Then flush'd her cheek with rosy light. 

She glanced across the plain ; 
But not a creature was in sight : 

She kiss'd me once again. 

" Her kisses were so close and kind, 

That, trust me on my word. 
Hard wood I am, and wrinkled rind. 

But yet my sap was slirr'd : 

" And even into my inmost ring 

A pleasure I discern'd, 
Lil<e those blind motions of the Spring, 

That show the year is turu'd. 



THE TALKING OAK. 



53 



"Thrice -happy he that may caress 

The ringlet's waving bahn — 
Tlie cushions of whose touch may press 

The maiden's tender palm. 

" I, rooted here among the groves, 

But languidly adjust 
My vapid vegetable loves 

With anthers and with dust : 

" For ah I my friend, the days were brief 

Whereof the poets talk, 
When that, which breathes within the leaf, 

Could slip its bark and walk. 

" But could I, as in times foregone, 
From spray, and branch, and stem, 

Have suck'd and gather'd into one 
The life that spreads in them, 

" She had not found me so remiss ; 

But lightly issuing thro', 
I would have paid her kiss for kiss 

With usury thereto." 

O flourish high, with leafy towers. 

And overlook the lea, 
Pursue thy loves among the bowers, 

But leave thou mine to me. 

O flourish, hidden deep in fern, 

Old oak, I love thee well ; 
A thousand thanks for what I learn 

And what remains to tell. 

" 'T is little more ; the day was warm ; 

.At last, tired out with play. 
She sank her head upon her arm. 

And at my feet she lay. 

" Her eyelids dropp'd their silken eaves. 

1 breathed upon her eyes 
Thro' all the summer of my leaves 

A welcome mix'd with sighs. 

" I took the swarming sound of life ^ 

The music from the town — 
The murmurs of the drum and fife 

And luU'd them in my own. 

" Sometimes I let a sunbeam slip. 

To light her shaded eye ; 
A second llutter'd round her lip 

Like a golden butterfly ; 

"A third would glimmer on her neck 

To make the necklace shine ; 
Another slid, a sunny fleck, 

From head to ankle fine. 

" Then close and dark my arms I spread, 

.And shadow'd nil hur rest — 
Dropt dews u])on her golden head. 

An acorn in her breast. 

" But in a pet she started up, 
And pluck'd it out, aiKi drew 



My little oakling from the cup. 
And flung him in the dew. 

" And yet it was a graceful gift — 

I felt a pang within 
As when I see the woodman lift 

His a.xe to slay my kin. 

" I shook him down because he was 

The finest on the tree. 
He lies beside thee on the grass. 

O kiss him once for me. 

" O kiss him twice and thrice for me, 

That have no lips to kiss. 
For never yet was oak on lea 

Shall grow so fair as this." 

Step deeper yet in herb and fern. 
Look further thro' the chace, 

Spread upward till thy boughs discern 
The front of Sumner-place. 

This fruit of thine by Love is blest. 

That but a moment lay 
Where fairer fruit of Love may rest 

Some happy future day. 

I kiss it twice, I kiss it thrice. 
The vrarnith it thence shall win 

To riper life may magnetize 
The baby-oak within. 

But thou, while kingdoms overset, 
(Jr lapse from hand to hand. 

Thy leaf shall never fail, nor yet 
Thine acorn in the land. 

May never saw dismember thee. 

Nor wielded axe disjoint. 
That art the fairest-spoken tree 

From here to Lizard-point. 

O rock u]ion thy towery top 
All throats that gurgle sweet 1 

All starry culmination drop 
Balm-dews to bathe thy feet ! 

All grass of silky feather grow — 
And while he sinks or swells 

The full south-breeze around thee blov» 
The sound of minster bells. 

The fat earth feed thy branchy root. 

That under deeply strikes ! 
The northern morning o'er thee shoot. 

High up, in silver spikes ! 

Nor ever lightning char thy grain, 

But, rolling as in sleep, 
Low thunders bring tlie mellow rain, 

I'hat makes thee broad and deep 1 

And hear me swear a solemn oath. 

That only by thy side 
Will 1 to Olive plight my troth, 

And gain her for my bride. 



4- 



54 



LOVE AND DUTY. 



And when my marriage morn may fall, 
j She, Dryad-like, sliall wear 
I Ahernate leaf and aconi-ball 
I In wreath about her hair. 

I And I will work in prose and rhyme, 
I And praise thee more in both 
Than bard has honor'd beech or lime. 
Or that Thessalian growth. 

In which the swarthy ringdoves sat, 
And mystic sentence spoke : 

And more than England honors that. 
Thy famous brother-oak, 

Wherein the younger Charles abode 
Till all the paths were dim, 

And far below the Roundhead rode, 
And hunun'd a surly hymn. 



LOVE AND DUTY. 

Of love that never found his earthly close, 
What sequel ? Streaming eyes and breaking 

hearts ? 
Or all the same as if he had not been ? 

Not so. Shall Krror in the round of time 
Still father Truth ? O shall the braggart 

shout 
For some blind glimpse of freedom work 

itself 
Thro' madnes.s, hated by the wise, to law 
System and empire ? Sin itself be found 
The cloudy porch oft opening on the Sun ? 
And only he, this wonder, dead, become 
Mere highway dust ! or year by year alone 
Sit brooding in the laiiiis of a life. 
Nightmare of youth, the spectre of himself? 
If this were thus, if this, indeed, were all. 
Better the narrow brain, the stony heart, 
The staring eye glazed o'er with sajiless days. 
The long mechanic pacings to and iVo, 
The set gray life, and apathetic end. 
But am I not the nobler thro' thy love? 
O three times less unworthy ! likewise thou 
Art more thro' Love, and greater than thy 

years. 
The Sun will run his orbit, and the Moon 
Her circle. Wait, and Love himself will 

bring 
The drooping flower of knowledge changed 

to fruit 
Of wisdom. Wait : my faith is Large in 

Time, 
And that which shapes it to some perfect end. 
Will some one say, then why not ill for 

good ? 
Why took ye not your pastime? To that 

man 
My work shall answer, since I knew the right 
And did it ; for a man is not as God, 
But then most Godlike behig most a man. 
— So let me think 't is well for thee and 

me — 
111 fated that I am, what lot is mine 
Wljot.; foresight preaches peace, iny heart so 

slow 



To feel it ! For how hard it seem'd to me, i 
When eyes, love-languid thro' halt-tears, 

would dwell 
One earnest, earnest moment upon mine, 
Tlien not to dare to see ! when thy low voice. 
Faltering, would break its syllables, to keep 
My own full-tuned, — hold passion in a leash. 
And not leap forth and fall about thy neck, 
.'\nd on thy bosom, (deep-desired relief 1) 
Rain out the heavy mist of tears, that weigh'd 
Upon my brain, my sense.s, and my soul ! 
For Love himself took part against him- 
self 
To w'arn us off, and Duty loved of Love — 
O this world's curse, — beloved but hated — 

came 
Like Death betwixt thy dear embrace and 

mine. 
And crying, "Who is this? behold thy 

bride," 
She push'd me from thee. 

If the sense is hard 
To alien ears, I did not speak to these — 
No, not to thee, but to myself in thee : 
Hard is my doom and thine : thou knowest 

it all. 
Could Love part thus? was it not well to 

speak, 
To have spoken once ? It could not but be 

well. 
The slow sweet hours that bring us all things 

good. 
The slow sad hours that bring us all things ill. 
And all good things from evil, brought the 

night 
In which we sat together and alone. 
And to the want, that hollow'd all the heart, 
Gave utterance by the yearning of an eye. 
That bum'd upon its object thro' such tears 
As flow but once a life. 

The trance gave way 
To those caresses, when a hundred times 
In that last kiss, which never was the last. 
Farewell, like endless welcome, lived and 

died. 
Then follow'd counsel, comfort, and the words 
That make a man feel strong in speaking 

truth ; 
Till now the dark was worn, and overhead 
I'he lights of sunset and of sunrise mix'd 
in that brief night ; the summer night, that 

paused 
Among her stars to hear ns ; stars that lumg_ 
Love-charm'd to listen: all the wheels oi 

Time 
Spun round in station, but the end had come. 
O then like those, who clench their nerves 

to rush 
Upon their dissolution, we two rose, 
'i'here — closing like an individual life — 
In one blind cry of passion and of pain. 
Like bitter accusation ev'n to death. 
Caught up the whole of love and iitter'd it. 
And bade adieu forever. 

Live — yet live — 
Shall sharpest pathos blight us, knowing all 
Life needs for life is possible to will — 
Live happy ; tend thy flowers : be tended by 



THE GOLDEN YEAR. — ULYSSES. 



55 



My blessins; ! Should my Shadow cross thy 

thoughts 
Too sadly for their peace, remand it thou 
For cahner hours to Memory's darkest hold, 
If not to be forgotten —not at once — 
Not all forgotten. Sliould it cross 'thy 

dreams, 
O might it come like one that looks content, 
With quiet eves unfaithful to the truth. 
And point thee forward to a distant light, 
Or seem to lift a burthen f'-om thy heart 
And leave thee freer, till thou wake refresh'd. 
Then when the low matin-chirp hath grown 
Full choir, and morning driv'n her plough of 

pearl 
Far furrowing into light the mounded rack, 
Beyond the fair green field and eastern sea. 



THE GOLDEN YEAR. 

Well, you shall have that song which Leon- 
ard wrote : 
It was last summer on a tour in Wales: 
Old James was with me : we that day had 

been 
Up -Snowdon ; and I wish'd for Leonard 

there. 
And found him in Llamberis : then we crost 
Between the lakes, and clamber'd halfway up 
The counter side ; and that same song ot his 
He told me ; for I banter'd him, and swore 
They said he lived shut up within himself, 
A tongue-tied Poet in the feverous days. 
That, setting the lioiu }nuch before the hoiVy 
Cry, like the daughters of the horse-leech, 

" Give, 
Cram us with all," but count not me the herd ! 
To which "They call me what they will," 

he said : 
" But I was bom too late : the fair new forms, 
That float about the threshold of an age, 
Like truths of Science waiting to be caught — 
Catch me who can, and make the catcher 

crown'd — 
Are taken by the forelock. Let it be. 
But if you care indeed to listen, hear 
These measured words, my work of yester- 

morn. 
"We sleep and wake and sleep, but all 

things move : 
The Sun flies forward to his brother Sun ; 
The dark Earth follows wheel'd in her 

ellipse ; 
And human things returning on themselves 
Move onward, leading up the golden year. 
"Ah, tho' the times, when some new 

tliought can bud. 
Are but as poets' seasons when they flower, 
Yet seas, that daily gain up(m the shore. 
Have ebb and flow conditioning their march, 
And slow and sure comes up the golden year. 
"When wealth no more shall rest in 

moundi^d heaps. 
But smit with freer light shall slowly melt 
In many streams to fatten lower lands, 
And light shall spread, and man be liker man 
Thro' all the season of the golden year. 



all 



"Shall eagles not be eagles? wrens be 

wrens ? 
If all the world were falcons, what of that? 
The wonder of the eagle were the less. 
But he not less the eagle. Happy days 
Roll onward, leading up the golden year. 
" Fly happy happy sails and bear the 

Press ; 
Fly happy with the mission of the Cross ; 
Knit land to land, and blowing havenward 
With silks, and fruits, and spices, clear of 

toll. 
Enrich the markets of the golden year. 
" But we grow old. Ah ! when shall 

men's good 
Be each man's rule, and universal Peace 
Lie like a shaft of light across the land, 
And like a lane of beams athwart the sea. 
Thro' all the circle of the golden year? " 

Thus far he flowed, and ended ; whereupon 
"Ah, folly!" iu mimic cadence answer'd 

James — 
" Ah, folly ! for it lies so far away, 
Not in our time, nor in our children's time, 
'T is like the second world to us that live ; 
'T were all as one to fix our hopes on Heaven 
As on this vision of the golden year." 
With that he struck his staff against tha 

rocks 
And broke it, — James, — you know him, — 

old, but full 
Of force and choler, and firm upon his feet, 
.And like an oaken stock in winter woods, 
O'erflourish'd with the hoary clematis : 
Then added, all in heat : 

"What stuff is this! 
Old writers pnsh'd the happy season back, — 
The more fools they, — we forward: dream- 
ers both : 
You most, that in an age, when every hour 
Must sweat her sixty minutes to the death. 
Live on, God love us, as if the seedsman, 

rapt 
Upon the teeming harvest, shovild not dip 
His hand into the bag : but well I knovi? 
That unto him who works, and feels he 

works, 
This same grand year is ever at the doors." 
He spoke ; and, high above, I heard 

them blast 
The steep slate-quarry, and the great echo 

flap 
And buffet round the hills from bluff to bluflT. 



ULYSSES. 

It little profits that an idle king. 

By this still hearth, among these barren 

crags, 
Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole 
Unequal laws unto a savage race. 
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know 

not me. 
I cannot rest from travel : I will drink 
Life to the lees : all times I have enjoy'd 
Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with 

those 



S6 



LOCKSLEY HALL. 



That loved me, and alone ; on shore, and 

when 
Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades 
Vext the dim sea : I am become a name ; 
For always roaming with a hungry lieart 
Much have I seen and known : cities of men 
And manners, climates, councils, govern- 
ments. 
Myself not least, but honor'd of them all ; 
And drunk delight of battle with my peers, 
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. 
I am a part of all tliat I have met ; 
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro' 
Gleams that untravell'd world, whose margin 

fades 
Forever and forever when I move. 
How dull it is to pause, to make an end. 
To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use ! 
As tho' to breathe were life. Life piled on 

life 
Were all too little, and of one to me 
Little remains : but every hour is saved 
From that eternal silence, something more, 
A bringer of new things ; and vile it were 
For some three suns to store and hoard my- 
self. 
And this gray spirit yearning in desire 
To follow knowledge, like a sinking star. 
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought. 

This is my son, mine own Telemachus, 
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle — 
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil 
This labor, by slow prudence to make mild 
A rugged people, and thro' soft dejjrees 
Subdue them to the useful and the good. 
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere 
Of common duties, decent not to fail 
In offices of tenderness, and pay 



Meet adoration to my household gods. 
When I am gone. He works his work, I 

mine. 
There lies the port : the vessel puffs her 

sail : 
There gloom the dark broad seas. My mar- 
iners, 
Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and 

thought with me — 
That ever with a frolic welcome took 
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed 
Free hearts, free foreheads — you and I are 

old; 
Old age hath yet his honor and his toil ; 
Death closes all: but something ere the end, 
Some work of noble note, may yet be done, 
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods. 
'Ihe lights begin to twinkle from the rocks: 
The long day wanes : the slow moon climbs > 

the deep 
Moans round with many voices. Come, my 

friends, 
'T is not too late to seek a newer world. 
Push off, and sitting well in order smite 
The sounding furrows ; for my purpose holds 
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths 
Of all the western stars, until I die. 
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down : 
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, 
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. 
Tho' much is taken, much abides ; and tho' 
Weare not now that strength which in olddays 
Moved earth and heaven ; that which w« 

are, we are ; 
One equal temper of lieroir hearts, 
Made weak by time and fate, but strong if 

will 
To strive, to seek, to find, and no^ to yield. 



LOCKSLEY HALL. 

Comrades, leave me here a little, while as yet 't is early morn ; 
Leave me here, and when you want me, sound upon the bugle horn. 

'T is the place, and all around it, as of old, the curlews call. 
Dreary gleams about the moorland flying over Locksley Hall ; 

Locksley Hall, that in the distance overlooks the sandy tracts, 
And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring into cataracts. 

Many a night from yonder ivied casement, ere I went to rest, 
Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly to the West. 

Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising thro' the mellow shade, 
Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid. 

Here about the beach I wander'd, nourishing a youth sublime 
With the fairy tales of science, and the long result of Time ; 

When the centuries behind me like a fruitful land reposed : 
When I clung to all the present for the promise that it closed : 

When I dipt into the future far as human eye could see ; 

Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would ho--" 

In the Spring a fuller crimson comes ui)on the robin's breast ; 
In the Spring the wanton lapwing gets himself another crest; 







^-j.fK£^-'/"^- 



' Many an evening by the waters did we watch the stately sh.ns 
And onr spirits rush'd together at the touching of the lips." 



LOCKS LEY HALL. 57 

In the Sprini; a livelier iris changes on the biirnish'd dove ; 

In the Spring a young man's fancy lightly tums to thoughts oflove. 

Then her cheek was pale and thinner tlian should be for one so young, 
And her eyes un all my uiutions with a mute ubservaiico hinig. 

And I said, " My cousin Amy, speak, and speak tlie truth to me, 
Trust me, cousin, all the current of my being sets to thee." 

On her pallid cheek and forehead came a color and a light. 
As I have seen the rosy red (lushing in the northern night. 

And she turn'd — her bosom shaken with a sudden storm of sighs — 
All the spirit deeply dawning in the dark of hazel eyes — 

Saying, " I have hid my feelings, fearing they should do me wrong " ; 
Saying, " Dost thou love ine, cousin ? " weeping, " I have loved thee long." 

Love took up the glass of Time, and turn'd it in his glowing hands; 
Every moment, liglitly shaken, ran itself in golden sands. 

Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might ; 
Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, pass'd in music out of sight. 

Many a morning on the moorland did we hear the copses ring, 
And her whisper throng'd my pulses with the fulness of the Spring. 

Many an evening by the waters did we watch the stately ships, 
And our spirits rush'd together at the touching of the lips. 

O my cousin, shallow-hearted ! O my Amy, mine no more 1 

the dreary, dreary moorland ! O the barren, barren shore I 

Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than all songs have sung, 
Puppet to a father's threat, and servile to a shrewish tongue I 

Is it well to wish thee happy ? — having known me — to decline 
On a range of lower feelings and a narrower heart than mine ! 

Yet it shall be : thou shalt lower to his level day by day. 

What is fine within thee growing coarse to sympathize with clay. 

As the husband is, the wife is : thou art mated with a clown. 

And the grossness of his nature will have weight to drag thee down. 

He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force, 
Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse. 

What is this? his eyes are heavy: think not they are glazed with wine. 
Go to him : it is thy duty : kiss him : take liis hand in thine. 

It may be my lord is weary, that his brain is overwrought ; 

Soothe him with thy finer fancies, touch him with thy lighter thought. 

He will answer to the purpose, easy things to understand — 
Better thou wert dead before me, tho' I slew thee with my hand 1 

Better thou and I were lying, hidden from the heart's disgrace, 
Roll'd in one another's arms, and silent in a last embrace. 

Cursed be the social wants that sin against the strength of youth I 
Cursed be the social lies that warp us from the livingtruth ! 

Cursed be the sickly forms that err from honest Nature's rule ! 
Cursed be the gold that gilds the straiten'd forehead of the fool I 

Well — 't is well that I should bluster ! — Hadst thou less unworthy proved^- 
Would to God — for I had loved thee more than ever wife was loved. 

Am I mad, that I should cherish that which bears but bitter fruit? 

1 will pluck it from my bosom, tho' my heart be at the root. 

Never, tho' my mortal summers to such length of year.-, should come 
As the many-winter'd crow that leads the clanging rookery home. 

Where is comfort ? in division of the records of the mind ? 
Can I part her from herself, and love her, as I knew her, kind? 



58 LOCKSLEY HALL. 

I remember one that perish'd : sweetly did she speak and move : 
Such a one do I remember, whom to look at was to love. 

Can I think of her as dead, and love her for the love she bore ? 
No — she never loved me truly : love is love forevermore. 

Comfort? comfort scorn'd of devils ! this is truth the poet sings, 
That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things. 

Drug thy memories, lest thou learn it, !e;.t thy heart be put to proof, 
In the dead unh ippy night, when the rain is on the roof. 

Like a dog, he hunts in dreams, and thou art staring at the wall, 
Where the dying night-lamp tlickers, and the shadows rise and fall. 

Then a hand shall pass before thee, pointing to his drunken sleep. 
To thy widow'd marriage pillows, to the tears that thou wilt weep. 

Thou shalt hear the " Never, never," whisper'd by the phantom years, 
And a song from out the distance in the ringing of thine ears ; 

And an eye shall vex thee, looking ancient kindness on thy pain. 
Turn thee, turn thee on thy pillow : get thee to thy rest again. 

Nay, but Nature brings thee solace ; for a tender voice will cry. 
'T is a purer life than thine ; a lip to drain thy trouble dry. 

Baby lips will laugh me down : my latest rival brings thee rest. 
Baby fingers, waxen touches, press me from the mother'" breast. 

O, the child too clothes the father with a dearness not his due. 
Half is thine and half is his: it will be worthy of the two. 

O, I see thee old and formal, fitted to thy petty part. 

With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a daughter's heart. 

" They were dangerous guides the feelings — she herself was not exempt - 
Truly, she herself had suffer'd" — Perish in thy self-contempt ! 

Overlive it — lower yet — be happy ! wherefore should I care? 
I myself must mix with action, lest I wither by despair. 

What is that which I should turn to, lighting upon days like these? 
Every door is barr'd with gold, and opens but to golden keys. 

Every gate is throng'd with .suitors, all the markets overflow. 
I have but an angry fancy : what is that which I should do? 

I had been content to perish, falling on the foeman's ground. 

When the ranks are roll'd in vapor, and the winds are laid with sound. 

But the jingling of the guinea helps the hurt that Honor feels. 
And the nations do but murmur, snarling at each other's heels. 

Can I but relive iti sadness? I will turn that earlier page. 
Hide me from my deep emotion, O thou wondrous Mother-Age ! 

Make me feel the wild pulsation that I felt before the strife. 
When I heard my days before me, and the tumult of my life ; 

Yearning for the large excitement that the coming years would yield. 
Eager-hearted as a boy when first he leaves his father's field. 

And at night along the dusky highway near and nearer drawn. 
Sees in heaven the light of London flaring like a dreary dawn ; 

And his spirit leaps within him to be gone before him then. 
Underneath the light he looks at, in among the throngs of men ; 

Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new: 
'I'hat which they have done but earnest of the things tliat they shall do : 

For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could see. 

Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be ; 

Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of magic sails. 
P ilots of the purple tuili^^ht, dropping down with costly '"I-'" • 



LOCKSLEY HALL. 

Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there rain'd a ghastly dew 
From the nations' airy navies grappling in the central blue ; 

Far along the world-wide whisper of the south-wind rushing warm, 
With the standards of the peoples plunging thro' the thunder-storm ; 

Till the war-drum thvobb'd no longer, and the battle flags were furl'd 
In the Parliament of man, the Federation of the world. 

There the common sense of most shall hold a fretful realm in awe, 
And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapt in universal law. 

So I triumph'd, ere my passion sweeping thro' me left me dry. 
Left me with the palsied heart, and left me with the jaundiced eye ; 

Eye, to which all order festers, all things here are out of joint. 
Science moves, but slowly slowly, creeping on from point to point : 

Slowly comes a hungry people, as a lion, creeping niglier. 
Glares at one that nods and winks behind a slowly-dying fire. 

Yet I doubt not thro' the ages one increasing purpose runs. 

And the thoughts of men are widen'd with the process of the suns. 

What is that to him tliat reaps not harvest of his youthful joys, 
Tho' the deep heart of existence beat forever like a boy's? 

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and I linger on the shore, 
And the individual withers, and the world is more and more. 

Knowledge conies, but wisdom lingers, and he bears a laden breast. 
Full of sad experience, moving toward the stillness of his rest. 

Hark, my merry comrades call me, sounding on the bugle horn, 
They to whom my foolish passion were a target for their scorn : 

Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such a moulder'd string? 
I am shamed thro' all ray nature to have loved so slight a thing. 

Weakness to be wroth with weakness ! woman's pleasure, woman's paia — 
Nature made them blinder motions bounded in a shallower brain : 

Woman is the lesser man, and all thy passions, match'd with mine. 
Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine — 

Here at least, where nature sickens, nothing. Ah, for some retreat 
Deep in yonder shining Orient, where my life began to beat ; 

Where in wild Mahratta-battle fell my father evil-starr'd ; — 
I was left a trampled orphan, and a selfish uncle's ward. 

Or to burst all links of habit — there to wander far away. 
On from island unto island at the gateways of the day. 

Larger constellations burning, mellow moons and happy skies. 
Breadths of tropic shade and palms in cluster, knots of Paradise. 

Never comes the trader, never floats an European flag. 

Slides the bird o'er lustrous woodland, swings the trailer from the crag; 

Droops the heavy-blossom'd bower, hangs the heavy-fruited tree — 
Summer isles of Eden lying in dark-purple spheres of sea. 

There methinks would be enjoyment more than in this march of mind. 
In the steamship, in the railway, in the thoughts that shake mankind 

There the passions cramp'd no longer shall have scope and breathing-space; 
I will take some savage woman, she shall rear my dusky race. 

Iron-jointed, supple-sinew'd, they shall dive, and they shall run. 
Catch the wild goat by the hair, and hurl their lances in the sun ; 

Whistle back the parrot's call, and leap the rainbows of the brooks, 
Not with blinded eyesight poring over miserable books — 

Fool, again the dream, the fancy ! but I know my words are wild, 

Uut I count the gray barbarian lower than the Christian child. 



6o GOBI V A. 

/, to herd with narrow foreheads, vacant of our glorious gains, 
Like a beast with lower pleasures, like a beast with lower pains ! 

Mated with a squalid savage — what to me were sun or clime ? 
I the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of time — 

I that rather held it better men should perish one by one, 

Than that earth should stand at gaze like Joshua's moon in Ajalon I 

Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, forward let us range. 
Let the great world spin forever down the ringing grooves of change. 

Thro' the shadow of the globe we sweep into the younger day : 
Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay. 

Mother- Age (for mine I knew not) help me as when life begun : 

Rift the hills, and roll the waters, flash the lightnings, weigh the Sun- 

O, I see the crescent promise of my spirit hath not set. 
Ancient founts ot inspiration well thro' all my fancy yet. 

Howsoever these things be, a long farewell to Locksley Hall ! 
Now for me the woods may wither, now for me the roof-tree fall. 

Comes a vapor from the margin, blackening over heath and holt, 
Cramming all the blast before it, in its breast a thunderbolt. 

Let it fall on Locksley Hall, with rain or hail, or fire or snow ; 
For the mighty wind arises, roaring seaward, and I go. 



GODIVA. 

/ tvaiied for the train at Covettiry ; 

I httug with grooms and porters on the 

bridge. 
To watch the three tall spires ; ajid there I 

shaped 
The city^s ancient legend into thi^ : — 

Not only we, the latest seed of Time, 
New men, that in the flying of a wheel 
Cry down the past, not only we, that prate 
Of rights and wrongs, have loved the people 

well, 
And loathed to see them overtax'd ; but she 
LMd more, and underwent, and overcame, 
1'he woman of a thousand summers back, 
Godiva, wife to that grim Earl, who ruled 
In Coventry : for when he laid a tax 
Upon his town, and all the mothers brought 
Their children, clamoring, " If we pay, we 

starve ! " 
She sought her lord, and found him, where 

he strode 
About the hall, among his dogs, alone. 
His beard a foot before him, and his hair 
A yard behind. She told him of their tears. 
And pray'd him, " If they pay this tax, thgy 

starve." 
Whereat he stared, replying, half-amazed, 
" You would not let your little finger ache 
For such as //i6'.r«? .*"' — " But I would die," 

said she. 
He laugh'd, and swore by Peter and by Paul : 
Then filliji'd at the diamond in her ear ; 
"O ay, ay, ay, you talk ! " — "Alas!" she 

said, 
"But prove me what it is I would not do." 
And from a heart as rough as Esau's hand. 
He answer'd, " Ride you naked thro' the 

town. 



And I repeal it " ; and nodding, as in scorn, 
He parted, with great strides among his dogs. 

So left alone, the passions of her mind. 
As winds from all the compass shift and blow, 
Made war upon each other for an hour. 
Till pity won. She sent a herald forth. 
And bade him cry, with sound of trumpet, all 
The hard condition ; but that she would loose 
The people : therefore, as they loved her 

well. 
From then till noon no foot should pace the 

street. 
No eye look down, she passing ; but that all 
Should keep within, door shut, and window 
barr'd. 
Then fled she to her inmost bower, and 
there 
Unclasp'd the wedded eagles of her belt. 
The ^nm Earl's gift ; but ever at a breath 
She linger'd, looking like a summer moon 
Half-dipt in cloud : anon she shook her head, 
And shower'd the rippled ringlets to her 

knee ; 
Unclad herself in haste ; adown the stair 
Stole on ; and, like a creeping sunbeam, slid 
From pillar unto pillar, until she rcach'd 
The gateway ; there she found her palfrey 

trapt 
In purj^le blazon'd with armorial gold. 
Then she rude forth, clothed on with chas- 
tity : 
The deep air listen'd round her as she rode. 
And all the low wind hardly breatliud for fear. 
The little wide-mouth'd heads upon the spout 
Had cunning eyes to see : the barking cur 
Made her cheek flame : her palfrey's (ootfall 

shot 
Light horrors thro' her pulses : the blind 

walls 
Were full of chinks and holes; and overhead 



THE TWO VOICES. 



Fantastic p;ables, crowding, stared: but she 
Not less thro' all bore up, till, last, she saw 
The white-flower'd elder-thicket from the 

field 
Gleam ihro' the Gothic archways in the wall. 
Then she rode back, clothed on with chas- 
tity: 
And one low churl, compact of thankless 

earth, 
The fatal byword of all years to come, 
Boring a little au;;er-hoie in fear, 
Peep'd — but his eyes, before they had their 

will. 
Were shrivell'd into darkness in his head, 
And dropt before him. So the Powers, who 

wait 
On noble deeds, cancell'd a sense misused ; 
And she, that knew not, pass'd : and all at 

once. 
With twelve great shocks of sound, the 

shameless noon 
Was clash'd and hammer'd from a hundred 

towers. 
One after one : but even then she gain'd 
Her bower ; whence reissuing, robed and 

crown'd. 
To meet her lord, she took the tax away. 
And built herself an everlasting name. 



THE TWO VOICES. 

A STILL small voice spake unto me, 
"Thou art so full of misery, 
Were it not better not to be ? " 

Then to the still small voice I said : 
" Let me not cast in endless shade 
What is so wonderfully made." 

To which the voice did urge reply : 

"To-day I saw the dragon-fly 

Come from the wells where he did lie. 

" An inner impulse rent the veil 
Of his old husk : from head to tail 
Came out clear plates of sapphire mail. 

"He dried his wings : like gauze they grew ; 
Thro' crofts and pastures wet with dew 
A living flash of light he flew." 

I said, " When first the world began, 
Young Nature thro' five cycles ran 
And in the sixth she moulded man! 

"She gave him mind, the lordliest 
Proportion, and, above the rest. 
Dominion in the head and breast." 

Thereto the silent voice replied : 
'Self-blinded are you by your pride : 
Look up thro' night : the world is wide. 

This truth within thy mind rehearse, 
That in a boundless universe 
Is boundless better, boundless worse. 



" Think you this mould of hopes and fears 
Could find no statelier than his peers 
In yonder hundred million spheres? " 

It spake, moreover, in my mind : 

" Tho' thou wert scatter'd to the wind, 

Yet is there plenty of the kind. 

Then did my response clearer fall : 
" No compound of this earthly ball 
Is like another, all in all." 

To which he answer'd scoffingly : 
" Good soul ! suppose I grant it thee, 
Who '11 weep for thy deficiency? 

"Or will one beam be less intense. 

When thy peculiar diflference 

Is cancell'd in the world of sense?" 

I would have said, " Thou canst not know," 
But my full heart, that work'd below, 
Rain'd thro' my sight its overflow. 

Again the voice spake unto me : 
"Thou art so steep'd in misery, 
Surely 't were better not to be. 

"Thine anguish will not let thee sleep, 

Nor any train of reason keep : 

Thou canst not think, but thou wilt weep." 

I said, "The years with change advance: 
If I make dark my countenance. 
I shut my life from happier chance. 

" Some turn this sickness vet might take, 
Ev'n yet." But he : " What drug can make 
A wither'd palsy cease to shake ? " 

I wept, " Tho' I should die, I know 
I hat all about the thorn will blow 
In tufts of rosy-tinted snow ; 

" And men, thro' novel spheres of thought 
Still moving after truth long sought. 
Will learn new things when I am not." 

" Yet," said the secret voice, " some time 
Sooner or later, will gray prime 
Make thy grass hoar with early rime. 

" Not less swift souls that vearn for light, 
Rapt after heaven's starrv flight. 
Would sweep the tracts of day and night. 

"Not less the bee would range her cells, 
The furzy prickle fire the dells, 
The foxglove cluster dappled bells." 

I said that " all the years invent : 
Each month is various to present 
The world with some development. 

"Were this not well, to bide mine hour, 
Tho' watching from a ruin'd tower 
How grows the day of human power ? " 



THE TWO VOICES. 



"The highest-mounted mind," he said, 
" Still sees the sacred morning spread 
The silent summit overhead. 

' Will thirty seasons render plain 
Those lonely lights that still remain, 
Just breaking over land and main ? 

" Or make that morn, from his cold crown 
And crystal silence creeping down. 
Flood with fuil daylight glebe and town ? 

" Forerun thy peers, thy time, and let 

Thy feet, millenniums hence, be set 

In midst of knowledge, dream'd not yet. 

" Thou hast not gained a real height, 
Nor art thou nearer to the light, 
Because the scale is infinite. 

" 'T were better not to breathe or speak, 
Than cry for strength, remaining weak. 
And seem to find, but still to seek. 

" Moreover, but to seem to find 

Asks what thou lackest, thought resign'd, 

A healthy frame, a quiet mind." 

I said, " When I am gone away, 
' He dared not tarry,' men will say, 
Doing dishonor to my clay." 

" This is more vile," he made reply, 

" To breathe and loathe, to live and sigh, 

Than once from dread of pain to die. 

" Sick art thnu — a divided will 
Still heaping on the fear of ill 
The fear of men, a coward still. 

" Do men love thee ? Art thou so bound 
To men, that how thy name may sound 
Will vex thee lying u.iderground ? 

" The memory of the wither'dleaf 
In endless time is scarce more brief 
Than of the garner'd Autumn-sheaf. 

" Go, vexed Spirit, sleep in trust ; 
The right ear. that is fill'd with dust. 
Hears little of the false or just." 

" Hard task, to pluck resolve," I cried, 
" From emptiness and the waste wide 
Of that abyss, or scornful pride I 

" Nay — rather yet that I could raise 
One hope that vvarm'd me in the days 
While still J yearn' d for human praise. 

" When, wide in soul and bold of tongue, 
Among the tents I paused and sung. 
The distant battle flash'd and rung. 

*' I sung the joyful Pa;an clear, 
And, sitting, burnish'd without fear 
The braud, the buckler, and the spear — 



" Waiting to strive a happy strife. 
To war with falsehood to the knile, 
And not to lose the good of life — 

" Some hidden principle to move, 

To put together, pan and prove. 

And mete the bounds of hate and love — 

" As far as might be, to carve out 
Free space for every human doubt. 
That the whole mind might orb about — 

"To search thro' all I felt or saw. 
The springs of life, the depths of awe, 
And reach the law within the law : 

" At least, not rotting like a weed, 
But, having sown some generous seed, 
Fruitful of further thought and deed, 

" To pass, when Life her light withdraws. 
Not void of righteous self-applause, 
Nor in a merely selfish cause — 

" In some good cause, not in mine own. 
To perish, wept for, honor'd, known. 
And like a warrior overthrown ; 

" Whose eyes are dim with glorious tears, 
When, soil'd with noble dust, he hears 
His country's war-song thrill his ears : 

I 
" Then dying of a mortal stroke, | 

What time the foeman's line is broke, j 

And all the war is roU'd in smoke." ] 

"Yea ! "said the voice, " thy dream was good. 

While thou abodest in the bud. 

It was the stirring of the blood. ' 

"If Nature put not forth her power 

About the opening of *he flower. 

Who is it that could . ye an hour ? ' 

" Then comes the check, the change, the fall ' 
Pain rises up, old pleasures pall. ; 

There is one remedy for all. ! 

" Yet hadst thou, thro' enduring pain, 
Link'd month to month with such a chain 
Of knitted purport, all were vain. 

" Thou hadst not between death and birth 
Dissolved the riddle of the earth. 
So were thy labor little-worth. 

"That men with knowledge merely play'd, 
I told thee — hardly nigher made, 
Tho' scaling slow from grade to grade ; 

" Much less this dreamer, deaf and blind. 
Named man, may hope some truth to find, 
That bears relation to the mind. 

" For every worm beneath the moon 
Draws ditferent thieaJs, and la:e and soon 
Spins, toiling out his own cocooii. 



THE TWO VOICES. 



63 



" Cry, faint not . either Truth is born 
Beyond the polar gleam forlorn, 
Or in the gateways of the morn. 

" Cry, faint not, cHnib : the summits slope 
Beyond tlie furthest flights of hope. 
Wrapt in dense cloud from base to cope. 

" Sometimes a little corner shines, 

As over rainy mist inclines 

A gleaming crag with belts of pines. 

" I will go forward, sayest thou, 
I shall not fail to find her now. 
Look, up, the fold is on her brow. 

"If straight thy track, or if oblique. 

Thou know'st not. Shadows thou dost strike, 

Embracing cloud, Ixion-like; 

" And owning but a little more 
Than beasts, abidest lame and poor, 
Calling thyself a little lower 

"Than angels. Cease to wail and brawl ! 
Why inch by inch to darkness crawl? 
There is one remedy for all." 

"O dull, one-sided voice," said I, 
" Wilt thou make everything a lie, 
To flatter me that I may die ? 

" I know that age to age succeeds. 
Blowing a noise of tongues and deeds, 
A dust of systems and of creeds. 

" I cannot hide that some have striven, 
Achieving calm, to whom was given 
The joy that mixes man with Heaven : 

" Who, rowing hard against the stream. 
Saw distant gates of Eden gleam. 
And did not dream it was a dream ; 

" But heard, by secret transport led, 
Ev'n in the charnels of the dead. 
The murmur of the fountain-head — 

"Which did accomplish their desire. 
Bore and forbore, and did not tire, 
Like Stephen, an unquenched fire. 

" He heeded not reviling tones. 
Nor isold his heart to idle moans, 
Tho' cursed and scorn'd, and bruised with 
stones : 

" But looking upward, full of grace. 
He pray'd, and from a happy place 
God's glory smote him on the face." 

The sullen answer slid betwixt : 

" Not that the grounds of hope were fix'd, 

The elements were kindlier mixd." 



H- 



I said, " I toil beneath the curse, 

But, knowing not the universe, 

1 fear to slide from bad to worse. 



" And that, in seeking xa undo 
One riddle, and to find the true, 
I knit a hundred others new : 

" Or that this anguish fleeting hence, 
Unmanacltd from bonds of sense. 
Be fix'd and fro^'n to permanence : 

" For I go, weak from suffering here ; 
Naked I go, and void of cheer : 
What is it that I may not fear? " 

" Consider well," the voice replied, 

" His face, that two hours since hath died : 

Wilt thou find passion, pain, or pride? 

" Will he obey when one commands? 
Or answer should one press his hands? 
He answers not, nor understands. 

" His palms are folded on his breast : 
There is no other thing express'd 
But long disquiet merged in rest. 

" His lips are very mild and meek : 
Tho' one should smite him on the cheek, 
And on the mouth, he will not speak. 

" His little daughter, whose sweet face 
He kiss'd, taking his last embrace. 
Becomes dishonor to her ra ;e — 

" His sons grow up that bear his name. 
Some grow to honor, some to shame, — 
But he is chill to praise or blame. 

" He wil.' n3'. hea' the north wi-'d rave. 
Nor, morning, household shcuer crave 
From winter rains that beat his grave. 

" High up the vapors fold and swim : 
About him broods the twilight dim : 
The place he knew forgetteth him." 

" If all be dark, vague voice," I said. 

" These things are wrapt in doubt and drsad, 

Nor canst thou show the dead are dead. 

"The sap dries up: the plant declines. 

A deeper tale my heart divines. 

Know I not Death ? the outward signs? 

" I found him when my years were few ; 
A shadow on the graves 1 knew, 
And darkness in the village yew. 

" From gjave to grave the shadow crept : 
In her still place the morning wept : 
Touch'd by his feet the daisy slept. 

" The simple senses crown'd his head : 
' Omega ! thou art Lord,' they said, 
' We find no motion in the dead.' 

" Why, if man rot in dreamless ease, 
Should that plain fact, as taught by these, 
Not make him sure that he shall cease? 



64 



THE TWO VOICES. 



" Who forged that other influence, 

That heat of" inward evidence, 

By which he doubts against the sense ? 

" He owns tlie fatal gift of eyes, 
That read his spirit bhndly wise, 
Not simple as a thing that dies. 

" Here sits he shaping wings to fly ; 
His heart forebodes a mystery : 
He nam:;s the name Eternity. 

" That type of Perfect in his mind 
In Nature can he nowhere find. 
He sows himself on every wind. 

" He seems to hear a Heavenly Friend, 
And thro' thick veils to apprehend 
A labor working to an end. 

" The end and the beginning vex 
His reason : many tilings perplex. 
With motions, checks, and counter-checks. 

" He knows a baseness in his blood 

At such strange war with something good. 

He may not do the thing he would. 

" Heaven opens inward, chasms yawn, 
Vast images in glimmering dawn, 
Half-shown, are broken and withdrawn. 

"Ah ! sure within him and without. 
Could his dark wisdom find it out. 
There must be answer to his doubt. 

" But thou canst answer not again. 
With thine own weapon art thou slain, 
Or thou wilt answer but in vain. 

"The doubt would rest, I dare not solve. 
In the same circle we revolve. 
Assurance only breeds resolve." 

As when a billow, blown against, 

Falls back, the voice witli wliicli I fenced 

A little ceased, but recommenced : 

" Where wert thou when thy father play'd 
In his free field, and pastime made, 
A merry boy in sun and shade ? 

" A merry boy they called him then. 
He sat upon the knees of men 
In days that never come again. 

" Before the little ducts began 

To feed thy bones with lime, and ran 

Their course, till thou wert also man : 

" Who took a wife, who rear'd his race. 
Whose wrinkles gather'd on his face. 
Whose troubles number with his days : 

"A life of nothings, nothing-worth. 
From that first nothing ere his binh 
To that last nothing under earth 1 " 



"These words," I said, "are like the rest. 
No certain clearness, but at best 
A vague suspicion of the breast : 

" But if I grant, thou might'st defend 
The thesis which thy words intend — 
That to begin implies to end ; 

" Yet how should I for certain hold. 
Because my memory is so cold, 
That 1 first was in human mould ? 

" I cannot make this matter plain, 
But I would shoot, howe"er in vain, 
A random arrow from the brain. 

" It may be that no life is found. 
Which only to one engine bound 
Falls off, but cycles always round. 

" As old mythologies relate. 

Some draught of Lethe niii;ht await 

The slipping thro' from state to state. 

"As here we find in trances, men 
Forget the dream that happens then, 
Until they fall in trance again. 

" So might we, if our state were such 

As one before, remember much, 

For those two likes might meet and touch. 

" But, if I lapsed from nobler place, 
Some legend ot a fallen race 
Alone might hint of my disgrace ; 

" Some vague emotion of delight 

Tn gazing up an Alpine height, 

Some yearning toward the lamps of night. 

"Or if thro' lower lives I came — 
Tho' all experience past became 
Consolidate in mind and frame — 

" I might forget my weaker lot ; 
For is not our first year forgot ? 
The haunts of memory echo not. 

" And men, whose reason long was blind, 
From cells of madness unconfined. 
Oft lose whole years of darker mind. 

" Much more, if first I floated free, 
As naked essence, must I be 
Incompetent of memory : 

" For memory dealing but with time, 
And he with matter, could she climb 
Beyond her own material prime? 

" Moreover, something is or seems, 
That touches me with mystic gleams, 
Like glimpses of forgotten dreams — 

" Of something felt, like something here ; 
Of something done, I know not where ; 
Such as no language may declare." 



THE DAY-DREAM. 



6S 



The still voice laugh'd. "I talk," said lie, 
" Not with thy dreams. Suffice it thee 
Thy pain is a reality." 

" But thou," said I, "hast miss'd thy mark, 
Who sought'st to wreck my mortal ark. 
By making all the horizon dark. 

" Why not set forth, if I should do 
This rashness, that which might ensue 
With this old soul in organs new ? 

" Whatever crazy sorrow saith. 

No life that breathes with human breath 

Has ever truly long'd for death. 

" 'T is life, whereof our nerves are scant, 

life, not death, for wliich we pant; 
More life, and fuller, that [ want." 

1 ceased, and sat as one forlorn. 
Then said the voice, in quiet scorn : 
" Behold, it is the Sabbath morn." 

And I arose, and I released 

The casement, and the light increased 

With freshness in the dawning east. 

Like soften'd airs that blowing steal. 
When meres be;<in to uncongeal. 
The sweet church bells began to peal. 

On to God's house the people prest : 
Passing the place where each must rest, 
Kach enter'd like a welcome guest. 

One walk'd between his wife and child. 
With measur'd footfall firm and mild. 
And now and then he gravely smiled. 

The prudent partner of his blood 
Lean'd on Iiim, faithful, gentle, good, 
Wearing the rose of womanhood. 

And in their double love secure, 
The little maiden waik'd demure, 
Pacing with downward eyelids pure. 

These three made unity so sweet, 
My frozen heart began to beat. 
Remembering its ancient heat. 

I blest them, and they wander'd on : 
I spoke, but answer came there none : 
The dull and bitter voice vi-as gone. 

A second voice was at mine ear, 

A little whisper silver-clear, 

A murmur, " Be of better cheer." 

As from some blissful neighborhood, 

A notice faintly understood, 

" I see the end, and know tlie good." 

A little hint to solace woe, 

A hint, a whisper breatliing low, 

" 1 may not speak of what I know." 



Like an yEolian harp that wakes 

No certain air, but overtakes 

Far thought with music that it makes : 

Such seem'd the whisper at my side : 

" What is it thou knowest, sweet voice?" I 

cried. 
" A hidden hope," the voice replied : 

So heavenly-toned, that in that hour 
From out my sullen heart a power 
Broke, like the rainbow from the shower. 

To feel, altho' no tongue can prove. 
That every cloud, that spreads above 
And veileth love, itself is love. 

And forth into the fields I went. 
And Nature's living motion lent 
The pulse of hope to discontent. 

r wonder'd at the bounteous hours, 
The slow result of winter-showers : 
You scarce could see the grass for flowers. 

I wonder'd, while I paced along: 
The woods were fill'd so full with song, 
There seem'd no room for sense of wrong. 

So variously seem'd all things wrought, 
I marvell'd how the mind was brought 
To anchor by one gloomy thought ; 

.And wherefore rather I made choice 
I'o commune with that barren voice, 
Than him that said, " Rejoice ! rejoice ! " 



THE DAY-DREAM. 

PROLOGUE. 

O Lady Fi ora, let me speak : 

A pleasant hour has past away 
While, dreaming on your damask cheek. 

The dewy sister-eyelids lay. 
As by the lattice you reclined, 

I went thro' many wayward moods 
To see you dreaming — and, behind, 

A summer crisp with shining woods. 
And I too dream'd, until at last 

Across my fancy, brooding warm. 
The reflex of a legend past. 

And loosely settled into form. 
And would you have the thought I had. 

And see the vision that I saw. 
Then take the broidery-frame, and add 

A crimson to the quaint Macaw, 
And I will tell it. Turn your face. 

Nor look with that too-earnest eye — 
The rhymes are dazzled from their place. 

And order'd words asunder fly. 

THE SLEEPING PALACE, 



The varying year with blade and sheaf 
Clothes and reclothes the happy plains ; 



66 



THE DAY-DREAM. 



Here rests the sap within the leaf, 
Here stays tlie blood along the veins. 

Faint shadows, vai)ors lightly curl'd, 
Faint murmurs from the meadows uome, 

Like hints and echoes of the world 
To spirits folded in the womb. 



Soft lustre bathes the range of urns 

On every slanting terrace-lawn. 
The fountain to his place returns, 

Deep in the garden lake witlulrawn. 
Here droops the banner on tlie tower, 

On the hall- hearths the festal fires, 
The peacock in his laurel bower. 

The parrot in his gilded wires. 



Roof-haunting martins warm their eggs: 

In these, in those the life is stay'd. 
The mantles from the golden pet;s 

Droop sleepily : no sound is made, 
Not even of a gnat that sings. 

I\I ore like a picture seemeth all 
Than those old portraits of old kings. 

That watch the sleepers from the wall. 



Here sits the butler with a flask 

Between his knees half-drain'd ; and there 
The wrinkled steward at his task, 

The maid of-honor blooming fair: 
The page has caught her hand in his : 

Her lips are sever'd as to speak : 
His own are pouted to a kiss : 

The blush is fix'd upon her cheek. 



Till all the hundred summers pass. 

The beams, that through the oriel shine. 
Make prisms in every carven glass. 

And beaker brimm'd with noble wine. 
Each baron at the banquet sleeps, 

Grave faces gather'd m a ring. 
His state the king reposing keeps. 

He must have been a jovial king. 



All round a hedge upshnots, and shows 

At distance like a little vi^ood : 
Thorns, ivies, woodbine, mistletoes, 

And grapes with bunches red as blood ; 
All creeping plants, a wall of green 

Close-matted, bur and brake and brier, 
And glimpsing over these, just seen. 

High up the topmost palace-spire. 



When will the hundred summers die. 

And thought and time be bom again. 
And newer knowledge, drawing nigh, 

bring truth that sways the soul of men? 
Here all things in their place remain. 

As all were order'd, ages since. 
Come, Care and Pleasure, Hope and Pain, 

And bring the fated fairy Prince. 



THE SLEEPING EEAUTY. 



Year after year unto her feet. 

She lying on her couch alone, 
Across the purpled coverlet. 

The maiden's jet-black hair has grown, 
On either side her tranced form 

Forth streaming from a braid of fcarl: 
The slumbrous light is rich and warm, 

And moves not on the rounded curl. 



The silk star-broider'd coverlid 

Unto her limbs itself doth mould 
Languidly ever ; and, amid 

Her full black ringlets downward roll'd, 
Glows forth each softly-shadowed arm 

With bracelets of the diamond bright : 
Her constant beauty doih inform 

Stillness with love, and day with light. 

3- 

She sleeps : her breathings are not heard 

In palace chair.bers far apart. 
The fragrant tresses are not stirr'd 

That lie upon her charmed heart. 
.She sleeps : on either liand upswells 

The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest: 
She sleeps, nor dreams, Init ever dwells 

A perfect form in perfect rest. 

THE ARRIVAL. 



All precious things, di.scover'd late, 

To those that seek them issue forth; 
For love in sequel works with fate. 

And draws tlje veil from hidden worth. 
He travels far from other skies — 

His mantle glitters on the rocks — 
A fairy Prince, with joyful eyes. 

And lighter-footed than the fox. 



The bodies and the bones of those 

'I'hat strove in other days to pass, 
Are wither'd in the thorny clo.se. 

Or scattered blanching on the grass. 
He gazes on the silent dead 

" They perish'd in their daring deeds." 
This proverb flashes thro' his head, 

" The many fail : the one succeeds." 



He comes, scarce knowing what he seeks: 

He breaks the hedge : he enters there : 
The color flies into his cheeks : 

He trusts to light on something fair; 
For all his life the charm did talk 

About his path, and hover near 
With words of promise in his walk, 

And whisper'd voices at his ear. 



IVlore close and close his footsteps wind ; 
The Magic Music in his heart 




' How say you ? we have slept, my lords, 
My beard has grown into my lap." 



i 



Bents quick and quicker, till Ik 

The quiet chamber far apart. 
His spirit flutters like a lark, 

He stoops — to kiss her — on his knee. 
"Love, if thy tresses be so dark, 

How dark those hidden eyes must be ! ' 

THE REVIV.A.L. 



A touch, a kiss ! the char?Ti was snapt. 

There rose a noise of striking clocks, 
And feet that ran, and doors that clapt. 

And barkinc; do,c;s, and crowing cocks ; 
A fuller light Illumined all, 

A breeze thro' all the garden swept, 
A sudden hubbub shook the hall. 

And sixty feet the fountain leapt. 



The hedge broke in, the banner blew. 

The butler drank, the steward scrawl d, 
The fire shot up, the martin flew. 

The parrot scream'd, the peacock squall'd, 
The maid and page renew'd their strife, 

The palace bang'd, and buzz'd, and clackt. 
And all the long-pent stream of life 

Dash'd downward in a cataract. 



And last with these the king awoke. 

And in his chair himself uprear'd. 
And yawn'd, and riibb'd his face, and spoke, 

" L>y holy rood, a royal beard ! 
How say you ? we have slept, my lords. 

My beard has grown into my lap." 
The barons swore, with many words, 

'T was but an after-dinner's nap. 



"Pardy," return'd the king, "but still 

My joints are something stiff or so. 
My lord, and shall we pass the bill 

I mention'd half an hour ago? " 
The chancellor, sedate and vain. 

In courteous words return'd reply : 
But dallied with his golden chain. 

And, smiling, put the question by. 

THE DEPARTURE. 

I. 

And on her lover's arm she leant, 

And round her waist she felt it fold. 
And far across the hills they v/ent 

In that new world which is the old : 
Across the hills, and far away 

Beyond their utmost purple rim. 
And deep into the dying day 

The happy princess fohow'd him. 



I 'd sleep another hundred years, 
^ O love, for such another kiss" ; 
"O wake forever, love," she hears, 

"O love, 't was such as this and this.' 



THE DAV-DREAI\r. 
find 



67 



And o'er them many a sliding star, 
And many a merry wind was borne. 

Ami, streain'd thro' many a golden bar. 
The twilight melted into morn. 

3- 

"O eyes long laid in happy sleep I" 

" O happy sleep, that I'ightly fled ! " 
"O happy kiss, that wokethy .sleep !" 

" O love, thy kiss would wake the dead ! 
And o'er them many a flowing range 

Of vapor buoy'd the crescent-bark. 
And, rapt thro' many a rosy change. 

The twilight died nito the dark. 

4- 
"A hundred summers ! can it be ? 

And whither goest thou, tell me where?" 
"() seek my father's court with me, 

For there are greater wonders there." 
And o'er the hills, and far away 

Beyond their utmost purple rim. 
Beyond the night, across the day. 

Thro' all the world she follow'd hin 



him. 



MORAL. 



So, Lady Flora, take my lay. 

And if you find no moral tliere. 
Go, look in any glass and say, 

What moral is in being fair. 
O, to what uses shall we put 

The vvildweed-flov\'er that simply blows? 
And is there any moral shut 

Within the bosom of the rose? 



But any man that walks the mead, 

In bud or blade, or bloom, may find. 
According as his humors lead, 

A nieaning suited to his mind. 
And liberal applications lie 

In Art like Nature, dearest friend ; 
So 't were to cramp its use, if I 

Should hook it to some useful end. 

l'envol 



You shake your head. A random string 

Your finer female sense offends. 
Well — were it not a pleasant thing 

To fall asleep with all one's friends; 
To pass with all our social ties 

To silence from the paths of men ; 
And every hundred years to rise 

_ And learn the world, and sleep again ; 
To sleep thro' terms of mighty war's, 

And wake on science grown to more. 
On secrets of the brain, the stars, 

-As wild as aught of fairy lore ; 
And all that else the years will show, 

'I'he Poet-lorms of stronger hours. 
The vast Republics that mav grow. 

The Federations and the Powers ; 
Titanic forces taking birth 

In divers seasons, divei's climes ; 



68 

For we are Ancients of the earth, 
And in the morning of the times. 



A MP H ION. 



So sleeping, so aroused from sleep 

Thro' sunny decades new and strange, 

Or gay quinqnenniads would we reap 
The flower and quintessence of change. 



Ah, yet would I — and would I might 1 

So much your eyes my fancy take — 
Be still the first to leap to light 

That I might kiss those eyes awake ! 
For, am I right or am I wrong. 

To choose your own you did not care ; 
You 'd have 7ny moral from the song, 

And I will take my pleasure there : 
And, am I right or am I wrong, 

My fancy, ranging thro' and thro', 
To search a meaning for the song, 

Perforce will still revert to you ; 
Nor finds a closer truth than this 

All-graceful head, so richly curl'd, 
And evermore a costly kiss 

The prelude to some brighter world. 



For since the time when Adam first 

Embraced his Eve in happy hour, 
And every bird of Eden burst 

In carol, every bud to flower. 
What eyes, like thine, have waken'd hopes? 

What lips, like thine, so sweetly join'd ? 
Where on the double rosebud droops 

Tlie fulness of the pensive mind ; 
Which all too dearly self-mvo!ved. 

Yet sleeps a dreamless sleep to me ; 
A sleep bv kisses undissolved. 

That lets thee neither hear nor see : 
But break it. In the name of wife. 

And in the rights that name may give, 
Are clasp'd the moral of thy life, 

And that for which I care to live. 

EPILOGUE. 

So, Lady Flora, take my lay. 

And, if you find a meaning there, 
O whisper to your glass, and say, 

" What wonder, if he thinks me fair?" 
What wonder 1 was all unwise. 

To shape the song for your delight. 
Like long-tail'd birds of Paradise, 

That float thro' Heaven, and cannot light? 
Or old-world trains, uiiheld at court 

By Cupid-boys of blooming hue — 
But take it — earnest wed with sport, 

And either sacred unto you. 



-f 



AMPHION. 

Mv father left a park to me, 
But it is wild and barren, 

A garden too with scarce a tree 
And waster than a warren : 



Yet say the neighbors when they call, 

It is not bad but good land, 
And in it is the germ of all 

That grows within the woodland. 

O had I lived when song was great 

In days of old Amphion, 
And ta'en my fiddle to the gate, 

Nor cared for seed or scion ! 
And had I lived when song was great, 

And legs of trees were limber. 
And ta'en my fiddle to the gate. 

And fiddled in the timber ! 

'T is said he had a tuneful tongue, 

Such happy intonation. 
Wherever he sat down and sung 

He left a small plantation ; 
Wherever in a lonely grove 

He set up his forlorn pipes, 
The gouty oak began to move. 

And flounder into hornpipes. 

The mountain stirr'd its bushy crown, 

And, as tradition teaches. 
Young ashes pirouetted down 

Coquetting with young beeches ; 
And brionv-vine and ivy-wreath 

Ran forward to his rhyming. 
And from the valleys underneath 

Came little copses climbing. 

The birch-tree swang her fragrant hair, 

The bramble cast her berry, 
The gin within the juniper 

Began to make him merry, 
The poplars, in long order due, 

With cypress promenaded, 
The shock-head willows two and two 

By rivers gallopaded. 

Came wet-shot alder from the wave, 

Came yews, a dismal coterie : 
Each pluck'd his one foot from the grave, 

Poussetting with a sloe-tree : 
Old elms came breaking from the vine. 

The vine stream'd out to follow. 
And, sweating rosin, phimp'd the pine 

From many" a cloudy hollow. 

And wasn't it a sight to see, 

When, ere his song was ended, 
Like some great landslip, tree by tree. 

The countrv-side descended ; 
And shepherds from the mountain-eaves 

Look'd down, half-pleased, half-frighten d, 
As dash'd about the drunken leaves 

The random sunshine lighten'd 1 

O, nature first was fresh to men. 

And wanton without measure ; 
So youlhliil and so flexile then, 

You moved her at your jileasure. 
Twang out, my fiddle! shake the twigs I 

And make her dance attendance : 
Blow, flute, and stir the stiff-set sprig.s, 

And scirrhous roots and tendons. 



ST. AGiVES.—SIR GALAHAD. 



69 "^ 



•T is va!;i I in such a brassy age 

I could not move a thistle : 
The very sparrows in the hedge 

Scarce answer to my whistle ; 
Or at the most, when three-parts-sick 

With strumming and with scraping, 
A jackass heehaws from the rick, 

The passive oxen gaping. 

But what is that I hear? a sound 
Like sleepy counsel pleading : 

Lord ! — 't is in my neighbor's ground, 
The modern Muses reading. 

They read Botanic Treatises, 

And Works on Gardening through there, 
V .id Methods of transplanting trees. 

To look as if they grew there. 

The wither'd Misses ! how they prose 

O'er books of travell'd seamen, 
And show you slips of all that grows 

From England to Van Dienien. 
They read in arbors dipt and cut, 

And alleys, faded places, 
By squares of tropic summer shut 

And warm'd in crystal cases. 

But these, tho' fed with careful dirt, 

Are neither green nor sappy ; 
Half conscious of the garden squirt. 

The spindlings look unhappy. 
Better to me the meanest weed 

That blows upon its mountain, 
Tlie vilest herb that runs to seed 

Beside its native fountain. 

And I ..lust work thro' months of toil. 

And years of cultivation. 
Upon my proper patch of soil 

To grow my own plantation. 

1 Ml take the showers as they fall, 

I will not vex my bosom : 
Enough if at the end of all 
A little garden blossom. 



ST. AGNES. 

Deep on the convent-roof the snows 

Are sparkling to the moon : 
My breath to heaven like vapor goes: 

May my soul follow soon 1 
The shadows of the convent-towers 

Slant down the snowy sward. 
Still creeping with the creeping hours 

That lead me to my Lord : 
Make Thou my spirit pure and clear 

As are the frosty skies. 
Or this first snowdroj) of the year 

That in my bosom lies. 

As these white robes are soiled and dark. 

To yonder shining ground ; 
As this pale taper's earthly spark. 

To yonder argent round ; 
So shows mv soul before the Lamb, 

My spirit before Thee ; 



So in mine earthly house I am. 

To that I hnpe to be. 
Break up the heavens, O Lord ! and far. 

Thro' all yon starlight keen. 
Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star, 

In raiment white atid clean. 

He lifts me to the golden doors ; 

The flashes come and go ; 
All heaven bursts her starry floors. 

And strews her lights below. 
And deepens on and up ! the gates 

Roll back, and far within 
For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits, 

To make me pure of sin. 
The sabbaths of Eternity, 

t)ne sabbath deep and wide — 
A light upon the shining sea — 

The Bridegroom with his bride 1 



SIR GALAHAD. 

Mv good blade carves the casques of men. 

My tough lance thrusteth sure. 
My strength is as the strength of ten. 

Because my heart is pure. 
The shattering trumpet shrilleth high. 

The hard brands shiver on the steel. 
The splinter'd spear-sliafts crack and fly. 

The horse and rider reel : 
They reel, they roll in clanging lists, 

And when the tide of combat stands, 
Perfume and flowers fall in showers. 

That lightly rain from ladies' hands. 

How sweet are looks that ladies bend 

On whom their favors fall ! 
For them I battle to the end. 

To save from shame and thrall : 
But all my heart is drawn above. 

My knees are bow'd in crypt and shrine : 
I never felt the kiss of love. 

Nor maiden's hand in mine. 
More bounteous aspects on me beam. 

Me mightier transports move and thrill; 
So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer 

A virgin heart in work and will. 

When down the stormy crescent goes, 

A light before me swims. 
Between dark stems the tbrest glows, 

I hear a noise of hymns : 
Then by some secret shrine I ride ; 

I hear a voice, but none are there : 
The stalls are void, the doors are wide, 

The tapers burning fair. 
Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth, 

The silver vessels sparkle clean. 
The shrill bell rings, the censer swings, 

And solemn chants resound between. 

Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres 

I find a magic bark ; 
I leap on board : no helmsman steers: 

I float till all is dark. 
A gentle sound, an awful light I 

Three angels bear the holy Grail : 



EDWARD GRAY.- LYRICAL MONOLOGUE. 



70 

With folded feet, in stoles of white, 

On sleeping wings they sail. 
Ah, blessed vision 1 blood of God ! 

JVIy spirit beats her mortal bars. 
As down dark tides the glory slides, 

And star-like mingles with the stars. 

When on my goodly charger borne 

Thro' dreaming towns I go, 
The cock crows ere >.he Christmas morn, 

The streets are dumb with snow. 
The tempest crackles on the leads. 

And, ringing, spins from brand and mail 
But o'er the dark a glory spreads, 

And gilds the driving hail. 
I leave the plain, I climb the height ; 

No branchy thicket shelter yields: 
But blessed forms in whistling storms 

Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields. 

A maiden knight — to me is given 

Such hope, I know not fear ; 
I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven 

That often meet me here. 
I muse on joy that will not cease, 

Pure spaces clothed in living beams, 
Pure lilies of eternal peace. 

Whose odors haunt my dreams ; 
And, stricken by an angel's hand, 

This mortal armor that I wear. 
This weight and size, this heart and eyes, 

Are touch'd, are turn'd to finest air. 

The clouds are broken in the sky. 

And thro' the mountain-walls 
A rolling organ-harmony 

Swells up^ and shakes and falls. 
Then move the trees, the copses nod. 

Wings llutter, voices hover clear : 
" O just and faithful knight of God I 

Ride on ! the prize is near." 
So pass I hostel, hall, and grange ; 

By bridge and ford, by park and pale, 
AU-arm'd I ride, whate'er betide, 

Until 1 find die holy Grail. 



EDWARD GRAY. 

Sweet Emma Morcland of yonder town 
Met me walking on yonder wav, 

" And have yon lost your heart?" she said : ^ 
" And are you married yet, Edward Gray?" 

Sweet Emma Moreland spoke to me : 
Bitterly weeping I turn'd away : 

" Sweet Emma Moreland, love no more 
Can touch the heart of Edward Gray. 

" Ellen Adair she loved me vi'ell, 

Against her father's and mother's will : 

To-dav I sat for an hour and wept, 
By Ellen's grave, on the windy hill. 

" Shy she was, and I thought her cold ; 

Thought her proud, and tied over the sea 
Fill'd I was with folly and spite. 

When Ellen Adair was dying for ma. 



" Cruel, cruel the words I said ! 

Cruelly came they back to-day : 
' You 're too slight and fickie,' 1 said, 

' To trouble the heart of Edward Gray.' 

" There I put my face in the grass — 
Whisper'd, ' Listen to my despair : 

I repent me of all I did : 
Speak a little, Ellen Adair ! ' 

" Then I took a pencil, and wrote 

On the mossy stone, as I lay, 
' Here lies the body of Ellen Adair; 

And here the heart of Edward Gray ! ' 

" Love may come, and love may go. 
And fly, like a bird, from tree to tree : 

But I will love no more, no more. 
Till Ellen Adair come back to me. 

" Bitterly wept T over the stone : 
Bitterly weeping I turn'd away : 

There lies the body of Ellen Adair ! 
And there the heart of Edward Gray !' 



WILL WATERPROOF'S LYRICAL 
MONOLOGUE. 

MADE AT THE COCK. 

O PLUMP head-waiter at The Cock, 

To which I most resort. 
How goes the time? 'T is five o'clock. 

Go fetch a pint of port : 
But let it not be such as that 

You set before chance comers. 
But such whose father-grape grew fat 

On Lusitanian summers. 

No vain libation to the Muse, 

But may she still be kind, 
And whisper lovely words, and use 

Her influence on the mind, 
To make me write my random rhymes. 

Ere they be half-forgotten ; 
Nor add and alter, many times, 

Till all be ripe and rotten. 

I pledge her, and she comes and dips 

Her laurel in the wine. 
And lays it thrice upon my lips. 

These favor'd lips of mine ; 
Until the charm have power to make 

New lifeblood warm the bosum. 
And barren commonplaces break 

In full and kindly blossom. 

I pledge her silent at the board ; 

Her gradual fingers steal 
And touch upon the master-chord 

Of all 1 felt and feel. 
Old wishes, ghosts of broken plans. 

And phantom hopes assemble ; 
And that child's heart within the man's 

Begins to move and tremble. 



LYRICAL MONOLOGUE. 



Thro' many an hour of summer suns 

By many pleasant ways, 
Against its fountain upward runs 

The current of my days : 
1 kiss the lips I once have kiss'd ; 

The gas-light wavers dimmer ; 
And softly, thro' a vinous mist, 

My college friendships glimmer. 

I grow in worth, and wit, and sense, 

Unboding critic-pen. 
Or that eternal want of pence, 

Which vexes public men. 
Who hold their hands to all, and cry 

For that which all deny them, — 
Who sweep the crossings, wet or dry. 

And all the world go by them. 

Ah yet, tho' all the world forsake, 

Tho' fortune clip my wings, 
I will not cramp my heart, nor take 

Half-views of men and things. 
Let Whig and Tory stir their blood ; 

There must be stormy weather ; 
But for some true result of good 

All parties work together. 

Let there be thistles, there are grapes ; 

If old things, there are new ; 
Ten thousand broken lights and shapes, 

Yet glimpses of the true. 
Let raffs be rife in prose and rhyme. 

We lack not rhymes and reasons, 
As on this whirligig of Time 

We circle with the seasons. 

This earth is rich in man and maid ; 

With fair horizons bound ! 
This whole wide earth of light and shade 

Comes out, a perfect round. 
High over roaring Temple-bar, 

And, set in Heaven's third story, 
I look at all thmgs as they are. 

But thro' a kind of glory. 



Head-waiter, honor'd by the guest 

Half mused, or reeling-ripe, 
The pint, you brought me, was the best 

That ever came from pipe. 
But tho' the port surpasses praise. 

My nerves have dealt with stiffer. 
Is there some magic in the place ? 

Or do my peptics differ ? 

For since I came to live and learn, 

No pint of white or red 
Had ever half the power to turn 

This wheel within my head. 
Which bears a season'd brain about, 

Unsubject to confusion, 
Tho' soak'd and saturate, out and out, 

Thro' every convolution. 

For I am of a numerous house. 

With many kinsmen gay, 
Where long and largely we carouse, 

As who shall say me uay : 



Each month, a birthday coming on, 

We drink defying trouble. 
Or sometinijes two would meet in one, 

And then we drank it double ; 

Whether the vintage, yet unkept. 

Had relish fiery-new. 
Or, elbow-deep in sawdust, slept, 

As old as Waterloo ; 
Or stow'd (when classic Canning died) 

In musty bins and chambers, 
Had cast upon its crusty side 

The gloom of ten Decembers. 

The Muse, the jolly Muse, it is ! 

She answer'd to my call. 
She changes with that mood or this, 

Is all-in-all to all : 
She lit the spark within my throat. 

To make my blood run quicker, 
Used all her fiery will, and smote 

Her life into the liquor. 

And hence this halo lives about 

The waiter's hands, that reach 
To each his perfect pint of stout. 

His proper chop to each. 
He looks not like the common breed 

That with the napkin dally ; 
I think he came like Ganymede, 

From some delightful valley. 

The Cock was of a larger egg 

I'han modern poultry drop, 
Slept ff)rward on a firmer leg, 

And cramm'd a plumper crop ; 
Upon an ampler dunghill trod, 

Crovv'd lustier late and early, 
Sipt wine from rilver, praising God, 

And raked in golden barley. 

A private life was all his joy, 

Till in a court he saw 
A something-pottle-bodied boy, 

That knuckled at the taw: 
He stoop'd and clutch'd him, fair and good 

Flew over roof and casement : 
His brothers of the weather stood 

Stock-still for sheer amazement. 

But he, by farmstead, thorpe, and spire. 

And follow'd with acclaims, 
A sign to many a staring shire. 

Came crowing over Thames. 
Right down by smoky Paul's they bore, 

Till, where the street grows straiter. 
One fix'd forever at the door. 

And one became head-waiter. 

rSut whither would my fancy go? 

How out of place she makes 
The violet of a legend blow 

Among the chops and steaks ! 
'T is but a steward of the can. 

One shade more plump than common ; 
As just and mere a serving-man 

As any, born of woman. 



72 



TO 



I ranged too high : what draws me down 

Into the common day? 
Is it the weight of that half crown, 

Whicli I shall have to pay ? 
For, something duller than at first. 

Nor wholly comfortable, 
1 sit (my empty glass reversed). 

And thrumming on the table : 

Half fearful that, with self at strife, 

1 take myself to task ; 
Lest of the lulness of my life 

I leave an empty flask : 
For I had hope, by something rare, 

I'o prove myself a poet ; 
But, while I plan and plan, my hair 

Is gray before I know it. 

So fares it since the years began. 

Till they be gather'd up ; 
The truth, that flies the flowing can. 

Will haunt the vacant cup : 
And others' follies teach us not, 

Nor much their wisdojn teaches ; 
And most, of sterling worth, is what 

Our own experience preaches. 

Ah, let the rusty theme alone I 

We know not what we know. 
But for my pleasant liour, 'tis gone, 

'T is gone, and let it go. 
'T is gone : a thousand such have slipt 

Away from my embraces. 
And fall'n into the dusty crypt 

Of darken'd forms and faces. 

Go, therefore, thou ! thy betters went 

Long since, and came no more ; 
With ]ieals of genial clamor sent 

From many a tavern-door. 
With twisted quirks and happy hits. 

From misty men of letters ; 
The tavern-hours of mighty wits, — 

Thine elders and thy betters. 

Hours, when the Poet's words and looks 

Had yet their native glow : 
Not yet the fear of little books 

Had made him talk for show ; 
But, all his vast heart sherris-warm'd. 

He flash'd his random speeches ; 
Ere days, that deal in ana, swarm'd 

His literary leeches. 

So mix forever with the past, 

Like all good things on earth ! 
For should I prize thee, couldst thou last. 

At half thy real worth ? 
I Iiold it good, good things should pass : 

With time 1 will not quarrel : 
It is but yonder empty glass 

That makes me maudlin-moral. 



Head-waiter of the chop-house here. 

To which I most resort, 
I too nmst part : I hold thee dear 

For this good pint of port, 



For this, thou shalt from all things suck 
Marrow of mirth and laughter ; 

And, wheresoe'er thou move, good luck 
Shall fling her old shoe after. 

But thou wilt never move from hence. 

The sphere thy fate allots : 
Thy latter days increased with pence 

Go down among the pots : 
Thou battenest by the greasy gleam 

In haunts of hungry sinners, 
Old boxes, larded with the steam 

Of thirty thousand dinners. 

We fret, we fume, would shift our skins, 

Would quarrel with our lot : 
7'/ij'care is, under polish'd tins, 

To serve the hot-and-hot ; 
To come and go, and come again, 

Returning like the pewit. 
And walch'd by silent gentlemen. 

That trifle with the cruet. 

Live long, ere from thy topmost head 

The thick-set hazel dies ; 
Long, ere the hateful crow shall tread 

The corners of thine eyes : 
Live long, nor feel in head or chest 

Our changeful equinoxes. 
Till mellow Death, like some late guest. 

Shall call thee from the boxes. 

But when he calls, and thou shalt cease 

To pace the gritted floor. 
Aid, laying down an unctuous lease 

Ot life, shall earn no more : 
No carved cross bones, the types of Death, 

Shall show thee past to Heaven : 
But carved cross-pipes, and, underneath, 

A pint-pot, neatly graven. 



TO 



AFTER READING .\ LIFE AND LETTERS. 

" Cursed be he that moves my bones." 

Shakespeare's Epitaph, 

You might have won the Poet's name. 
If such be worth the winning now. 
And gain'd a laurel for your brow 

Of sounder leaf than I can claim ; 

But you have made the wiser choice, 
A life that moves to gracious ends 
Thro' troops of unrecording friends, 

A deedful life, a silent voice : 

And yon have niiss'd the irreverent doom 
or those that wear the Poet's crown; 
Hereafter, neither knave nor clown 

Shall hold their orgies at your tomb. 

For now the Poet cannot die 
Nor leave his music as of old, 
liut round him ere he scarce be cold 

Begins the scandal and the cry : 



TO E. L.—LADY CLARE. 



" Proclaim the faults he would not show : 
Break lock and seal ; betray the trust : 
Keep nothing sacred : 't is but just 

The many-headed beast should know." 

Ah shameless ! for he did but sing 
A song that pleased us from its worth ; 
No public life was his on earth, 

No blazon'd statesman he, nor king. 

He gave the people of his best : 
His worst he kept, his best he gave. 
My Shakespeare's curse on clown and 
knave 

Who will not let his ashes rest I 

Who make it seem more sweet to be 
Tlie little life of bank and brier, 
The bird that pipes his lone desire 

And dies uuheard within his tree, 

Than he that warbles long and loud 
And drops at Glory's temple-gates, 
For whom the carrion vulture waits 

To tear his heart before the crowd 1 



TO E. L., ON HIS TRAVELS IN 
GREECE. 

Illykian woodlands, echoing falls 
Of water, sheets of summer glass, 
The long divine Peneiin pass, 

The vast Akrokerauniaii walls, 

Tomohrit, Athos, all things fair. 
With such a pencil, such a pen, 
You shadow forth to distant men, 

I read and felt that 1 was there : 

And trust me while I turn'd the page. 
And track'd you still on classic ground, 
I grew in gladness till I found 

My spirits in the golden age. 

For me the torrent ever pour'd 

And glisten'd — here and there alone 
< The broad-limb'd Gods at random thrown 
By fountain-urns ; — and Naiads oar'd 

A glimmering shoulder under gloom 
Of cavern pillars ; on the swell 
The silver lily heaved and fell ; 

And many a slope was rich in bloom 

From him that on the mountain lea 
By dancing rivulets fed his flocks, 
To him who sat upon the rocks. 

And fluted to the morning sea. 



LADY CLARE. 

It was the time when lilies blow, 
And clouds are highest up in air. 

Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe 
To give his cousin, Lady Clare. 



I trow they did not part in scorn : 
Lovers long-betroth'd were they : 

They too will wed the morrow morn : 
God's blessing on the day ! 

" He does not love me for my birth. 
Nor for my lands so broad and fair : 

He loves me for my own true worth. 
And that is well," said Lady Clare. 

In there came old Alice the nurse. 

Said, " Who was this that went from thee?" 

" It was my cousin," said Lady Clare, 
"To-morrow he weds with me." 

" O God be thank'd ! " said Alice the nurse, 
" That all comes round so just and fair : 

Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands. 
And you are not the Lady Clare." 

" Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my 
nurse?" 

Said Lady Clare, " that ye speak so wild? " 
"As God's above," said Alice the nurse, 

" I speak the truth : you are my child. 

" The old Earl's daughter died at my breast ; 

I speak the truth, as I live by bread ! 
I buried her like my own sweet child. 

And put my child in her stead." 

" Falsely, falsely have ye done, 
O mother," she said, " if this be true. 

To keep the best man under the sun 
So many years from his due." 

" Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, 
" But keep the secret for your life, 

And all you have will be Lord Ronald's, 
When you are man and wife." 

" If I 'm a beggar born," she said, 
" I will speak out, for I dare not lie. 

Pull off, pull off, the broach of gold. 
And fling the diamond necklace by." 

" Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurs^ 
" But keep the secret all ye can." 

She said " Not so : but I will know 
If there be any faith in man." 

" Nay now, what faith ? " said Alice the nnrs^ 
" The man will cleave unto his right." 

' And he shall have it," the lady replied, 
" Tho' I should die to-night." 

" Yet give one kiss to your mother dear ! 

Alas, my child, I sinn'd for thee." 
" O mother, mother, mother," she .said, 

" So strange it seems to me. 

" Yet here 's a kiss for my mother dear, 

My mother dear, if this be so. 
And lay your hand upon my head. 

And bless me, mother, ere I go." 

She clad herself in a russet gown, 
She was no longer Lady Clare : 



m^^ 



THE LORD OF BURLEIGH. 



She went by dale, and she went by down, 
With a single rose in her hair. 

The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had brought 

Leapt up from where she lay, 
Dropt her head in the maiden's hand, 

And foUow'd her all the way. 

Down slept Lord Ronald from his tower : 
" O Lady Clare, you shame your worth ! 

Why come you drest like a village maid, 
That are the (lower of the earth ? " 

" If I come drest like a village maid, 

I am but as my fortunes are : 
I am a beggar born," she said, 

"And not the Lady Clare." 

" Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, 
" For I am yours in word and in deed. 

Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, 
" Your riddle is hard to read." 

O and proudly stood she up ! 

Her heart within her did not fail : 
She look'd into Lord Ronald's eyes. 

And told him all her nurse's tale. 

He laugh'd a laugh of merry scorn : 

He turn'd, and kiss'd her where she stood : 

" If you are not the heiress born, 
And I," said he, "the next in blood — 

i " If you are not the heiress born, 
And I," said he, "the lawful heir, 
We two will wed to-morrow morn. 
And you shall still be Lady Clare." 



THE LORD OF BURLEIGH. 

In her ear he whispers gayly, 

" If my heart by signs can tell, 
Maiden, I have watch'd thee daily, 

And I think thou lov'st me well." 
She replies, in accents fainter, 

"There is none I love like thee." 
He is but a landscape-painter, 

And a village maiden she. 
He to lips, that fondly falter, 

Presses his without reproof: 
Leads her to the village altar. 

And they leave her father's roof. 
" I can make no marriage present ; 

Little can I give my wife. 
Love will make our cottage pleasant, 

And 1 love thee more than life." 
They by parks and lodges going 

See the lordly castles stand ; 
Summer woods, about them blowing. 

Made a murmur in the land. 
From deep thought himself he rouses, 

Says to her that loves him well, 
" Let us see these handsome houses 

Where the wealthy nobles dwell." 
60 she goes by him attended, 

Hears him lovingly converse, 



Sees whatever fair and splendid 

Lay betwixt his home and hers ; 

Parks with oak and chestnut shady, 

Parks and order'd gardens great, 

Ancient homes of lord and lady, 

iJuilt for pleasure and for state. 

All he shows her makes him dearer : 

Evermore she seems to gaze 
On that cottage growing nearer, 

Where they twain will spend their days. 
O but she will love him truly ! 

He shall have a cheerful home ; 
She will order all things duly. 

When beneath his roof they come. 
Thus her heart rejoices greatly, 

Till a gateway she discerns 
With armorial bearings stately, 

And beneath the gate she turns ; 
Sees a mansion more majestic 

Than all those she saw before : 
Many a gallant gay d<'mestic 

Bows before hiui at the door. 
And they speak in gentle murmur, 

When they answer to his call. 
While he treads with footstep firmer. 

Leading on from hall to hall. 
And, while now she wonders blindly, 

Nof the meaning can divine, 
Proudly turns he round and kindly, 
" All of this is mine and thine." 
Here he lives in state and bounty, 
Lord of Burleigh, fair and free, 
Not a lord in all the county 

Is so great a lord as he. 
All at once the color flushes 

Her sweet face from brow to chin ; 
As it were with shame she blushes, 

And her spirit changed within. 
Then her countenance all over 

Pale again as death did prove ; 
But he clasp'd her like a lover, 

And he cheer'd her soul with love. 
So she strove against her weakness, 

Tho' at times her spirits sank : 
Shaped her heart with woman's meekness 

To all duties of her rank : 
And a gentle consort made he. 

And her gentle mind was such 
That she grew a noble lady. 

And the people loved her much. 
But a trouble weigh'd upon her. 

And perplex'd her, night and morn. 
With the burden of an honor 

Unto which she was not born. 
Faint she grew, and ever fainter, 
As she murmur'd, "O, that he 
Were once more that landscape-painter. 

Which did win my heart from me ! " 
So she droop'd and droop'd before him. 

Fading slowly from his side : 
Three fair children first she bore him. 

Then before her time she died. 
Weeping, weeping late and early. 

Walking up and pacing down. 
Deeply mourn'd the Lord of P.iirlcigh, 

Burleigh house by Stamford-town. 
And he came to look upon her. 
And he look'd at her and said, 




' Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe 
To give his cousin, Lady Clare." 



S//i LAUNCELOT AND QUEEN GUINEVERE. — A FAREWELL. 75 



" Bi-ing (he dress and put it on her, 
That she wore when she was wed." 

Then her people, softly treading, 
Bore to earth her body, drest 

In the dress that she was wed in. 
That her spirit might have resL 

SIR LAUNCELOT AND QUEEN 
GUINEVERE. 

A FRAGMENT. 

Like souls that balance joy and pain, 
With tears and smiles from heaven again 
The maiden Spring upon the plain 
Came in a sunlit fall of rain. 

Li crystal vapor everywhere 
Blue isles of heaven laugh'd between, 
And, far in forest-deeps unseen, 
The topmost elm-tree gather'd green 

From draughts of balmy air. 

Sometimes the linnet piped his song : 
Sometimes the throstle whistled strong : 
Sometimes the sparhawk, wheel d along, 
Hush'd all the groves from fear of wrong ; 

By grassy capes with fuller sound 
In curves the yellowing river ran. 
And drooping chest:iut-b'.ids be^an 
To spread into the perfect fan. 

Above the teeming ground. 

Then, in the boyhood of the year. 
Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere 
Rode thro' the coverts of the deer. 
With blissful treble ringing clear. 

She seem'd a part of joyous Spring ; 
A gown of grass-green silk she wore, 
Buckled with golden clasps before ; 
A light-green tuft of plumes she bore 

Closed in a golden ring. 

Now on some twisted ivy net, 

Now by some tinkling rivulet. 

In mosses mixt with violet 

Her cream-white mule his pastern set ; 

And fleeter now she skimiii'd the plains 
Than she whose elfin prancer springs 
By night to eery warblings. 
When all the glimmering moorland rings 

With jingling bridle-reins. 

As she fled fast thro' sun and sliade, 
The happy winds upon her play'd. 
Blowing the ringlet from the braid : 
She look'd so lovely, as she sway'd 

■J'he rein with dainty finger-tips, 
A man had given all other bliss. 
And all his worldly worth for this. 
To waste his whole heart in one kiss 

Upon her perfect lips. 



A FAREWELL. 

F'.ow down, cold rivulet, to the sea, 
Ihy tribute wave deliver : 

No more by thee my steps shall be. 
Forever and forever. 



Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea, 

A rivulet then a river : 
Nowhere by thee my steps shall be. 

Forever and forever. 

But here will sigh thine alder tree, 
And here thine aspen shiver ; 

And here by thee will hum the bee. 
Forever and forever. 

A thousand suns will stream on thee, 
A thousand moons will quiver ; 

But not by thee my steps shall be, 
Forever and forever. 



THE BEGGAR MAID. 

Her arms across her breast she laid ; 

She was more fair than words can say : 
Barefooted came the beggar maid 

Before the king Cophetua. 
In robe and crown the king stept down. 

To meet and greet her on her way ; 
" It is no wonder," said the lords, 

" She is more beautiful than day." 

As shines the moon in clouded skies. 

She in her poor attire was seen : 
One praised her ankles, one hereyes. 

One her dark hair and lovesonie mien. 
.So sweet a face, such angel grace. 

In all that land had never been : 
Cophetua sware a royal oath : 

" This beggar maid shall be my queen ! ' 



THE VISION OF SIN. 



I HAD a vision wtien the night was late: 
A youth came riding toward a palace-gate. 
He rode a horse with wings, that would have 

fiown, 
But that his heavy rider kept him down. 
And from the palace came a diild of sin, 
And took him by the curls, and led him in. 
Where sat a company with heated eyes. 
Expecting when a fountain should arise : 
A sleepy light upon their brows and lips — 
As when the sun, a crescent of eclipse. 
Dreams over lake and lawn, and isles and 

ca[)es — 
Suffused them, sitting, lying, languid shai^es. 
By heaps of gourds, and skins of wine, and 

piles of grapes. 



Then methought I heard a mellow sound, 
(Jathering up from all the lower ground ; 
Narrowing in to where they sat assembled 
Low voluptuous music winding trembled, 
Wov'n in circles : they that heard it sigh'd. 
Panted hand in hand with faces pale. 
Swung themselves, and in low tones re- 
plied ; 
Till the fountain spouted, showering wide 
Sleet oi diamond-drift and pearly hail ; 



76 



THE VISION OF SIN. 



Then the music toiich'd the gates and died ; 
Rose again trom where it seem'd to fail, 
Storm'd in orbs of song, a growing gale ; 
Till thronging in and in, to where they 

waited. 
As 't were a hundred-throated nightingale, 
The strong tempestuous treble throbbd and 

palpitated ; 
Ran into its giddiest whirl of sound. 
Caught the sparkles, and in circles. 
Purple gauzes, golden hazes, liquid mazes, 
Flung the torrent rainbow round : 
Then they started from their places. 
Moved with violence, changed in hue, 
Caught each other with wild grimaces, 
Half-invisible to the view. 
Wheeling with precipitate paces 
To the melody, till they flew. 
Hair, and eyes, and limbs, and faces. 
Twisted hard in fierce embraces. 
Like to Furies, like to Graces, 
Dash'd together in blinding dew : 
Till, kill'd with some hixurious agony. 
The nerve-dissolving melody 
Fluttered headlong irom the sky. 



And then I look'd up toward a mountain- 
tract. 
That girt the region with high cliff and lawn : 
I saw that every morning, far withdrawn 
Beyond the darkness and the cataract, 
God made himself an awful rose of dawn, 
Unheeded : and detaching, fold by fold. 
From those still heights, and, slowly draw- 
ing near, 
A vapor heavy, hueless, formless, cold, 
Came floating on for many a month and 

year. 
Unheeded : and I thought I would have 

spoken. 
And warned that madman ere it grew too 

late : 
But, as in dreams, I could not. Mine was 

broken. 
When that cold vapor touch'd the palace 

gate. 
And link'd again. I saw within my head 
A gray and gap-tooth'd man as lean as death. 
Who slowly rode across a wither'd heath. 
And lighted at a ruin'd inn, and said : 



" Wrinkled hostler, grim and thin ! 

Here is custom come your way ; 
Take my brute, and lead him in. 

Stuff his ribs with mouldy hay. 

" Bitter barmaid, waning fast ! 

See that sheets are on my bed ; 
What ! the flower of life is past : 

It is long before you wed. 

" Slip-shod waiter, lank and sour, 
At the Dragon on the heath I 

Let us have a quiet hour. 
Let us hob-and-nob with Death. 



" I am old, but let me drink ; 

Bring me spices, bring me wine ; 
I remember, wlien I think. 

That my youth was half divine. 

" Wine is good for shrivell'd lips, 
When a blanket wraps the day, 

When the rotten woodland drips. 
And the leaf is stamp'd in clay. 

" Sit thee down, and have no shame. 
Cheek by jowl, and knee by knee : 

What care I for any name? 
What for order or degree? 

" Let me screw thee up a peg : 

Let me loose thy tongue with wine: 

Callest thou that thing a leg? 

Which is thinnest? thine or mine? 

" Thou shalt not be saved by works* 

Thou hast been a sinner too : 
Ruin'd trunks on wither'd forks, 

Empty scarecrows, 1 and you 1 

" Fill the cup, and fill the can : 

Have a rouse before the mom : 
Every moment dies a man. 

Every moment one is bom. 

" We are men of ruin'd blood ; 

Therefore conies it we are wise. 
Fish are we that love the mud, 

Rising to no fancy-flies. 

" Name and fame ! to fly siiblime 
Through the couits, the camps, the schools, 

Is to be the ball of Time, 
Bandied in the hands of fools. 

" Friendship !— to be two in one — 

Let the canting liar pack ! 
Well I know, when 1 am gone. 

How she mouths behind my back. 

" Virtue ! — to be good and just — 

Every heart, when sifted well, 
Is a clot of warmer dust, 

Mix'd with cunning s^parks of hell. 

" O ! we two as well can look 
Whited thought ard cleanly life 

As the priest, above his book 
Leering at his neighbor's wife. 

" Fill the cup, and fill the can : 
Have a rouse before the morn : 

Every moment dies a man. 
Every moment one is bom. 

" Drink, and let the parties rave : 
They are fill'd with idle spleen ; 

Rising, falling, like a wave. 

For tliey know not what they mean. 



THE VISION OF SIN. 



" He that roars for liberty 

Faster binds a tyrant's power ; 

And the tyrant's cruel glee 
Forces on the freer hour. 

" Fill the can, and fill the cup : 
All the windy ways of men 

Are but dust that rises up, 
An^l l£ lightly laid again. 

" Greet her with applausive breath, 
Freedom, gajrly doth she tread ; 

In ht-T right a civic wreath. 
In her left a human head. 

" No, I love not what is new ; 

She is of an ancient house: 
And I think we know the hue 

Of that cap upon her brows. 

" Let her go ! her thirst she slakes 
Where the bloody conduit runs : 

Then her sweetest meal she makes 
On the first-born of her sons. 

" Drink to lofty hopes that cool — 

Visions of a perfect State : 
Drink we, last, the public fool, 
Frantic love and frantic hate. 

" Chant me now some wicked stave, 
Till thy drooping courage rise, 

And l!ie glow-worm of the grave 
Glimmer in thy rheumy eyes. 

" Yfix not thou to loose thy tongue ; 

Set thy hoary fancies free ; 
What is loathsome to the young 

Savors well to thee and me. 

" Change, reverting to the years. 
When thy nerves could understand 

What there is in loving tears. 

And the warmth of hand in hand. 

"Tell me tales of thy first love — 
April hopes, the fools of chance : 

Till the graves begin to move. 
And the dead begin to dance. 

" Fill the can, and fill the cup : 
All the windy ways of men 

Are but dust tliat rises up, 
And is lightly laid again. 

"Trooping from their mould v dens 
The chap-fallen circle spreads : 

Welcome, fellow-citizens. 

Hollow hearts and empty heads 1 

" You are bones, and what of that ? 

Every {?iC&^ however full. 
Padded round witli llesh and fat, 

Is but model!' d on a skull. 



" Death is king, and Vivat Rex I 
Tread a measure on the stones, 

Madam — if I know your sex. 
From the fashion of your bones. 



" No, I cannot praise the fire 
In your eye — nor yet your lip : 

All the more do I admire 
Joints of cunning workmanship. 

" Lo ! God's likeness — the ground-plan - 
Neither modell'd, glazed, or framed: 

Buss me, thou rough sketcii of man, 
Far too naked to be shamed I 



" Drink to Fortune, drink to Chance, 
While we keep a little breath ! 

Drink to he.ivy Ignorance ! 

Hob-and-nob with brother Death ! 

" Thou art mazed, the night is long. 
And the hmger night is near : 

What ! I am not all as wrong 
As a bitter jest is dear. 

" Youthful hopes, by scores, to all. 
When the locks are crisp and curl'd ; 

Unto me my maudiin gall 

And my mockeries of the world. 

" Fill the cup, and fill the can ! 

Mingle madness, mingle scorn/ 
Dregs of life, and lees of man : 

Yet we will not die forlorn." 



5- 
The voice grew faint : there came a further 

change : 
Once more uprose the mystic mountain- 
range : 
Below were men and horses pierced with 

worms. 
And slowly quickening into lower forms ; 
By shards and scurf of salt, and scum of 

dross, 
Old plash of rains, and refuse patch'd with 

moss. 
Then some one spake : " Behold ! it was a 

crime 
Of sense avenged by sense that wore with 

time." 
Another said : "The crime of sense becime 
The crime of malice, and is equal blame." 
And one : " He had not wholly quench'd his 

power ; 
A little grain of conscience made him sour." 
At last I heard a voice upon the slope 
Cry to the summit, " Is there any hope?" 
To which an answer peal'd from that high 

land. 
But in a tongue no man could understand ; 
And on the glimmering limit far withdrawn 
God made Himself an awful rose of dawn, 



78 



THE EAGLE. — THE POET'S SOI^O- 



Come not, when I am dead, 

To drop thy foolish tears upon my grave, 
To trample round my fallen head, 

And vex the unhappy dust thou vvouldst 
not save. 
Thert let the wind sweep and the plover cry ; 
But thou, go by. 

Child, if it were thine error or thy crime 

I care no longer, being all unblest : 
Wed whom thou wilt, but I am sick of Time, 

And I desire to rest. 
Pass on, weak lieart, and leave me where I 
lie: 
Go by, go by. 



THE EAGLE. 

FRAGMENT. 

He clasps the crag with hooked hands ; 
Close to the sun in lonely lands, 
Ring'd with the azure world, he stands. 
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls ; 
He watches from his mountain walls, 
And like a thunderbolt he falls. 



Move eastward, happy earth, and leave 
V^on orange sunset waning slow : 

/rom fringes of the faded eve, 
O, happy planet, eastward go : 

Till over thy dark shoulder glow 
Thy silver sister-world, and rise 
To glass herself in dewy eyes 

That watch me from the glen below. 

Ah, bear me with thee, lightly borne, 
Dip forward under starry light. 

And move me to my marriage-mora, 
And round again to happy night. 



Break, break, break. 

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea ! 
And I would that my tongue could utter 

The thoughts that arise in me. 

O well for the fisherman's boy, 

I'hat he shouts with his sister at play ! 

O well for the sailor lad. 
That he sings in his boat on the bay I 

And the stately ships go on 
To their haven under the hill ; 

But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand, 
And the sound of a voice that is siill ! 

Break, break, break, 

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea ! 
But the tender grace of a day that is dead 

Will never come back to me. 



THE POET'S SONG. 

The rain had fallen, the Poet arose. 

He pass'd bv the town and out of the street, 
A light wind blew from the gates of the sun. 

And waves of shadow went over the wheat, 
And he sat him down in a lonely place. 

And chanted a melody loud and sweet, 
That made the wild-swan pause in her cloud, 

And the lark drop down at his feet. 

The swallow stopt as he hunted the bee, ' 

The snake slipt under a spray, 
The wild hawk stood with the down on his 
beak, 

And stared, with his foot on the prey. 
And the nightingale thought, " 1 have sung 
many songs. 

But never a one so gay. 
For he sings of what the world will be 

When the years have died away." 



I 



THE FRINCHSS: A MEDLEY. 



THE PRINCESS 



A MEDLEY, 



HENRY LUSHINGTON 

THIS VOLUME IS INSCRIBED DY HIS FRIEND 

A. TENNYSON. 



PROLOGUE. 

Sir Walter Vivian all a summer's day 
Gave his broad lawns until the set of sun 
Up to the people : thither flock'd at noon 
His tenants, wife and child, and thither half 
The neighboring borough with their Institute 
Of which he was the patron. I was there 
From college, visiting the son, — the son 
A Walter too, — with others of our set, 
Five others : we were seven at Vivian-place. 

And me that morning V/alter show'd the 

house, 
Greek, set with busts : from vases in the hall 
Flowers of all heavens, and lovelier than 

their names, 
Grew side by side ; and on the pavement lay 
Carved stones of the Abbey ruin in the park. 
Huge Ammonites, and the first bones of 

Time ; 
And on the tables every clime and age 
Jumbled together : celts and calumets, 
Clayinore and snow-shoe, toys in lava, fans 
Of sandal, amber, ancient rosaries. 
Laborious orient ivory sphere in sphere. 
The cursed Malayan crease, and battle-clubs 
From the isles of palm : and higher on the 

walls. 
Betwixt the monstrous horns of elk and deer, 
His own forefathers' arms and armor hung. 

And "this," he said, "was Hugh's at 

Agincourt ; 
And that was old Sir Ralph's at Ascalon : 
A good knight he ! we keep a chronicle 
With all about him," — which he brought, 

and I 
Dived in a hoard of tales that dealt with 

knights 
Half-legend, half-historic, counts and kings 
Who laid about them at their wills and died ; 
And mixt with these, a lady, one that arm'd 
Her own fair head, and sallying thro' the 

gate, 
Had beat her foes with slaughter from her 

walls. 

"O miracle of women," said the book, 
"O noble heart who, being strait-besieged 



By this wild king to force her to his wish, 
Nor bent, nor broke, nor shunn'd a soldier's 

death. 
But now when all was lost or seem'd as lost — 
Her stature more than mortal in the burst 
Of sunrise, her arm lifted, eyes on fire — - 
Brake with a blast of trumpets from the gate, 
And, falling on them like a thunderbolt, 
She trampled some beneath her horses' heels. 
And some were whelm'd with missiles of the 

wall. 
And some were push'd with lances from the 

rock. 
And part were drown'd within the whirling 

brook : 
O miracle of noble womanhood ! " 

So sang the gallant glorious chronicle ; 
And, I all rapt m this, "Come out," he said, 
" To the Abbey: there is Aunt Elizabeth 
And sister Lilia with the rest." We went 
(I kept the book and had my finger in it) 
Down thro' the park : strange was the sight 

to me ; 
For all the sloping pasture murmur'd, sown 
With happy faces and with holiday. 
There moved the multitude, a thousand 

heads ; 
The patient leaders of their Institute 
Tauglit them with facts. One rear'd a font 

of stone 
And drew from butts of water on the slope. 
The fountain of the moment, playing now 
A twisted snake, and now a rain of pearls. 
Or steepup spout whereon the gilded ball 
Danced like a wisp : and somewhat lower 

down 
A man with knobs and wires and vials fired 
A cannon : Echo answer'd in her sleep 
From hollow fields : and here were telescopes 
For azure views ; and there a group of girls 
In circle waited, whom the electric shock 
Dislink'd witli shrieks and laughter: round 

the lake 
A little clock-work steamer paddling plied 
And shook the lilies : perch'd about the 

knolls 
A dozen angry models jetted steam : 
A petty railway ran : a fire-balloon 



8o 



THE PRINCESS: 



Rose fjem-like up before the dusky groves 
And dropt a lairy parachute and past : 
And there thro' twenty posts of telegraph 
They flashed a saucy n.essage to and fro 
Between the mimic stations ; so that sport 
Went hand in hand with Science ; otiierwhere 
Pure sport : a herd of boys with ciamor 

bowl'd 
And stunip'd the wicket ; babies roll'd about 
Like tumbled fruit in grass; and men and 

maids 
Arranged a country dance, and flew thro' 

lig'it . . 

And shadow, while the twangling violm 
Struck up with Soldier-laddie, and overhead 
The broad ambrosial aisles of lofty lime 
Made noise with bees and breeze Irom end to 

end. 

Strange was the sight and smacking of the 

time ; 
And long we gazed, but satiated at length 
Came to the ruins. High-arch'd and ivy- 

claspt, 
Of finest Gothic lighter than a fire, 
Thro' one wide chasm of time and frost they 

gave 
The park, the crowd, the house; but all 

within 
The sward was trim as any prden lawn : 
And here we lit on Aunt Elizabeth, 
And Lilia with the rest, and lady friends 
From neighbor seats : and there was Ralph 

himself, 
A broken statue propt against the wall. 
As gay as any. Lilia wild with sport. 
Half child, half woman as she was, had wound 
A scarf of orange round the stony helm. 
And robed the shoulders in a rosy silk. 
That made the old wairior from his ivied nook 
Glow like a sunbeam : near his tomb a feast 
Shone, silver-set ; about it lay the guests. 
And there we joined them : then the maiden 
I Aunt 

Took this fair day for text, and from it 
I preach'd 

An universal culture for the crowd. 

And all things great ; but we, unworthier, 

told 
Of College : he had climb'd across the spikes. 
And he liad squeezed himself betwixt the bars, 
And he had breathed the Proctor's dogs : and 

one 
Discuss'd his tutor, rough to common men, 
lUit honeying at the whisper of a lord ; 
And one the Master, as a rogue in grain 
Veneer'd with sanctimonious theory. 

But while they talk'd, above their heads I 
saw 
The feudal warrior lady-clad : which brought 
My book to mind : and opening this I read 
Of old Sir Ralph a page or two that rang 
With tilt and tourney ; then the tale of her 
That drove her foes with slaughter from her 

walls. 
And imich I praised her nobleness, and 
J " Where," 



Ask'd Walter, patting Lilia's head (she lay 
Beside him) " lives there such a woman 
now ? " 
Quick answer'd Lilia, "There are thou- 
sands now 
Such women, but convention beats them 

down : 
It is but bringing up ; no more than that : 
You men have done it : how 1 hate you all ! 
Ah, were I something great ! I wish 1 were 
Some mighty poetess, I would shame you 

then. 
That love to keep us children ! O I wish 
'I'hat I were some great Princess, I would 

build 
Far off from men a college like a man's. 
And I would teach them all that men are 

taught : 
We are twice as quick I " And here she 

shook aside 
The hand that play'd the patron with her 
curls. 
And one said smiling, " Pretty were the 
sight 
If our old halls could change their sex, r.nd 

flaunt 
With prudes for proctors, dowagers for deans, 
And sweet girl-graduates in their golden hair. 
I think they shouklnot wear our rusty gowns, 
But move as rich as Emperor-moths or Ralph 
Who shines so in the corner ; yet I fear. 
If there were many Lilias in the brood, 
However deep yon might embower the nest. 
Some boy would spy it." 

At this upon the sward 
She tapt her tiny silken-sandal'd foot : 
" That 's your light way : but I would make 

it death 
For any male thing but to peep at us." 

Petulant .she spoke, and at herself she 

laugh'd ; 
A rose-bud set with little wilful thorns, 
'\nd sweet as EngHsh air could make her, 

she: 
But Walter hail'd a score of names upon her. 
And " petty Ogress," and " ungratelul 

Puss," 
And swore he long'd at College, only long d. 
All else was well, for she-society. 
They boated and they cricketed ; they talk'd 
At wine, in clubs, of art, of politics ; 
They lost their weeks ; they vext the souls of 

deans ; , u i j 

They rode ; they betted ; made a hundred 

friend.s. 
And caught the blossom of the flymg terms. 
But mifs'd the mignonette of Vivian-place. 
The little hearth-flower Lilia. 'Ihus he 

spoke. 
Part banter, part affection. 

"True," she said, 
" We doubt not that. O yes, you miss'd us 

much, 
I '11 stake my ruby ring upon it you did." 

She held if out ; and as a parrot turns 
Up thro' gilt wires a crafty loving eye, 



A MEDLEY. 



8i 



And takes a lady's finger with all care, 
And bites it fur true heart and not for harm, 
So he with Lilia's. Daintily she shriek'd 
And wrung it. "Doubt my word again!" 

he said. 
" Come, listen ! here is proof that you were 

miss'd : 
We seven stay'd at Christmas up to read, 
And there we took one tutor as to read : 
The hard-graiu'd Muses of the cube and 

square 
Were out of season : never man, I think. 
So nioulder'd in a sinecure as he : 
For while our cloisters echo'd frosty feet, 
And our lonj;; walks were stript as bare as 

brooms, 
We did but talk you over, pledge you all 
In wassail : often, like as many girls — 
Sick for the hollies and the yews of home — 
As many little trifling Lilias — play'd 
Charades and riddles as at Christmas here, 
And what's tiiy thought and ■when and 

where and how. 
And often told a tale from mouth to mouth 
As here at Christmas." 

She remember'd that : 
A pleasant game, she thought : she liked it 

more 
Than magic music, forfeits, all the rest. 
But these — what kind of tales did men te'.l 

men. 
She wonder'd, by themselves? 

A half-disdain 
Perch'd on the pouted blossom of her lips : 
And Walter nodded at me ; ^' He began. 
The rest would follow, each in turn ; and so 
We forged a sevenfold story. Kind? what 

kind? 
Chimeras, crotchets, Christmas solecisms, 
Seven headed monsters only made to kill 
Time by the fire in winter." 

" Kill him now, 
The tyrant ! kill him in the summer too," 
Said Lilia; "Why not now," the maiden 

Aunt. 
" Why not a summer's as a winter's tale? 
A tale for summer as befits the time, 
And something it should be to suit the place. 
Heroic, for a hero lies beneath, 
Grave, solemn ! " 

Walter warp'd his mouth at this 
To something so mock-solemn, that I laugh'd 
And Lilia woke with sudden-shrilling mirth 
An echo like a ghostly woodpecker, 
Hid in the ruins; till the maiden Aunt 
(A litt'e sense of wrong had touch'd her face 
With color) turn'd to me with " As you will ; 
Heroic if you will, or what you will. 
Or be yourself your hero if 5'ou will." 

"Take Lilia, then, for heroine," clamor'd 
he, 
' And make her some great Princess, six feet 

Grand, epic, hom'cidal ; and be you 
The Prince to win her I " 

"Then follow me, the Prince," 
I answer'd, " each be hero in his turn I 
Seven and yet one, like shadows in a dream. — 



Heroic seems our Princess as required. — 
But something made to suit with Time and 

place, 
A Gothic ruin and a Grecian house, 
A talk of college and of ladies' rights, 
A feudal knight in silken masquerade. 
And, yonder, shrieks and strange experi- 
ments 
For which the good Sir Ralph had burnt 

them all — 
This ivere a medley ! we should have him 

back 
Who told the ' Winter's tale ' to do it for us. 
No matter : we will say whatever comes. 
And let the ladies sing us, if they will. 
From time to time, some ballad or a song 
To give us breathing-space." 

So I began. 
And the rest follow'd : and the women sang 
lietween the rougher voices of the men, i 

Like linnets in the pauses of the wind: 
And here I give the story and the songs. 



1. 



A Prince I was, blue-eyed, and fair in face, 
Of temper amorous, as the first of May, 
With lengths of yellow ringlet, like a girl, 
For on my cradle shone the Northern star. 

There lived an ancient legend in our house. 
Some sorcerer, whom a far-off grandsire burnt 
Because he cast no shadow, had foretold, 
Dying, that none of all our blood should know 
The shadow from the substance, and that one 
Should come to fight with shadows and to fall. 
For so, my mother said, the story ran. 
And, truly, waking dreams were, moreorless, 
An old and strange affection of the house. 
Myself too had weird seizures. Heaven 

knows what : 
On a sudden in the midst of men and day. 
And while I walk'd and talk'd as heretofore, 
I seem'd to move among a world of ghosts, 
And feel myself the shadow of a dream. 
Our great court-Galen poised his gilt-head 

cane. 
And paw'd his beard, and mutter'd "cata- 
lepsy." 
My mother pitying made a thousand prayers ; 
My mother was as mild as any saint. 
Half-canonized by all that look'd on her, 
So gracious was her tact and tenderness ; 
But my good father thought a king a king; 
He cared not for the affection of the house ; 
He held his sceptre like a pedant's wand 
To lash offence, and with long arms and 

hands 
Reach'd out, and pick'd offenders from the 

mass 
For judgment. 

Now it chanced that I had been, 
While life was yet in bud and blade, be- 

troth'd 
To one, a neighboring Princess : she to me 
Was proxy-wedded with a bootless calf 
At eight years old ; and still I'rom time to time 



82 



THE PRINCESS'. 



Came murmurs of her beauty from the South, 
And of her brethren, youths of puissance ; 
And still I wore her picture by my heart, 
And one dark tress ; and all around them both 
Sweet thou^.hts would swarm as bees about 
their queen. 

But when the days drew nigh that I should 
wed. 
My father sent ambassadors with furs 
And jewels, gifts, to fetch her; these brought 

back 
A present, a great labor of the loom ; 
And therewithal an answer vague as wind : 
Essides, they saw the king ; he took the gifts ; 
Ha said there was a compact ; that was true : 
But then she had a will ; was he to blame? 
And maiden fancies; loved to live alone 
Among her women ; certain, would not wed. 

That morning in the presence room I stood 
With Cyril and with Florian, my two friends : 
The first, a gentleman of broken means 
(His father's fault) but given to starts and 

bursts 
Of revel ; and the last, my other heart, 
And almost my half-self, for still we moved 
Together, twinn'd as horse's ear and eye. 

Now, while they spake, I saw my father's 

face 
Grow long and troubled like a rising moon, 
Inflamed with wrath : he started on his feet, 
Tore the king's letter, snow'd it down, and 

rent 
The wonder of the loom thro' warp and woof 
From skirt to skirt ; and at the last he sware 
That he would send a hundred thousand men, 
And britig her in a whirlwind : then he cliew'd 
The thrice-turn'd cud of wrath, and cook'd 

his spleen, 
Communing with his captains of the war. 

At last I spoke. " My father, let me go. 
It cannot be but some gross error lies 
In this report, this answer of a king. 
Whom all men rate as kind and hospitable : 
Or, maybe, I myself, my bride once seen, 
Whate'er my grief to find her less than fame. 
May rue the bargain made." And Florian 

said : 
" I have a sister at the foreign court. 
Who moves about the Princess ; she, you 

know. 
Who wedded with a nobleman from thence : 
He, dying lately, left her, as I he-r. 
The lady of three castles in that land : 
Thro' her this matter might be sifted clean." 
And Cyril whisper'd : ""Take me witli you 

too." 
Then laughing " what, if these weird seizures 

come 
Upon you in those lands, and no one near 
To point you out the shadow from the truth ! 
Take me : I 'II serve you better in a strait ; 
1 grate on rusty hin.^es here " : but " No ! " 
Roar'd the rough kmg, " you shall not ; we 

ourself 



Will crush her pretty maiden fancies dead 
In iron gauntlets : break the council up." 

But when the council broke, I rose and 

past 
Thro' the wild woods that hung about the 

town ; 
Found a still place, and pluck'd her likeness 

out ; 
Laid it on flowers, and watch'd it lying bathed 
In the green gleam of dewy-tassell'd trees: , 
What were those fancies? wherefore break i 

her troth ? ■ 

Proud look'd the lips : but while I medi- 
tated 
A wind arose and rush'd upon the South, 
And shook the songs, the whispers, and th« 

shrieks 
Of the wild woods together : and a Voice 
Went with it, " P'oUow, follow, thou shalt 

win." 

Then, ere the silver sickle of that month 
Became her golden shield, I stole from court 
With Cyril and with Florian. unperceived, 
Cat-footed thro' the town and half in dread 
To hear my father's clamor at our backs 
With Ho ! from some bay-window shake 

the night ; 
But all was quiet : from the bastion'd walls 
Like threaded spiders, one by one, we dropt. 
And flying reach'd the frontier : then we 

crost 
To a livelier land ; and so by tilth and prance, 
And vines, and blowing bosks of wilderness. 
We gain'd the mother-city thick with towers, 
And in the imperial palace found the king. 

His name was Gama ; crack'd and small 

his voice. 
But bland the smile that like a wrinkling 

wind 
On glassy water drove his cheek in lines ; 
A little dry old man, without a star. 
Not like a king : three days he feasted us, 
And on the fourth I spake of why we came, 
And my betroth'd. " You do us, Prince," 

he said. 
Airing a snowy hand and signet gem, 
" All honor. We remember love ourselves 
In our sweet youth : there did a compact pass 
Long summers back, a kind of ceremony — 
I think the year in which our olives fail'd. 
I would you had her. Prince, with all my 

heart. 
With my full heart : but there were widows 

here. 
Two widows. Lady Psyche, Lady Blanche ; 
They fed her theories, in and out of place 
Maintaining that with equal husbandry 
rhe woman were an equal to the man. 
They harp'd on this ; with this our banquets 

rang ; 
Our dances broke and buzz'd in knots of talk; 
Nothing but this ; my very ears were hot 
To hear them : knowledge, so my daughter 

held, 
Was all 'n all ; they had but been, she thought^ 



A MEDLEY. 



83 



As children ; they must lose the child, assume 
The woman : then, Sir, awful odes she wrote, 
Too awful, sure, for what they treated of, 
But all she is and does is awful ; odes 
About this losing of the child ; and rhymes 
And dismal lyrics, prophesying change 
Beyond all reason : these the women sang ; 
And they that know such things — I sought. 

but peace ; 
No critic I — would call them masterpieces ; 
They master'd me. At last she begg'd a boon 
A certain summer-palace which I have 
Hard by your father's frontier: I said no. 
Yet being an easy man, gave it ; and there, 
All wild to found an University 
For maidens, on the spur she fled ; and more 
We know not, — only this : they see no men. 
Not ev'n her brother Arac, nor the twins 
Herbiethren,tho' they love her, look upon her 
As on a kind of paragon ; and I 
(Pardon me saying it) were much loath to 

breed 
Dispute betwixt myself and mine: but since 
( And I confess with rifjht) you think me bound 
In some sort, 1 can give you letters to her : 
And yet, to speak the truth, I rate your chance 
Almost at naked nothing." 

Thus the king ; 
And I, tho' nettled that he seem'd to slur 
With garrulous ease and oily courtesies 
Our formal compact, yet, not less (all frets 
But chafing me on fire to find my bride) 
Went forth again with both my friends. We 

rode 
Many a long league back to the North. At last 
From hills, that look'd across a land of hope. 
We dropt with evening on a rustic town 
Set in a gleaming river's crescent-curve, 
Close at the boundary of the liberties ; 
There enter'd an old hostel, call'd mine host 
To council, plied him with his richest wines. 
And show'd the late-writ letters of the king. 

He with a long low sibilation, stared 
As blank as death in marble ; then exclaim'd 
Averring it was clear against all rules 
For any man to go : but as his brain 
Began to mellow, " If the king," he said, 
" Had given us letters, was he bound to 

speak ? 
The king would bear him out " ; and at the 

last — 
The summer of the vine in all his veins — 
" No doubt that we might make it worth hu 

while. 
• She once had past that way ; he heard her 

speak ; 
She scared him ; life ! he never saw the like : 
She look'd as grand as doomsday and as 

grave : 
And he, he reverenced his liege-lady there ; 
He always made a point to post with mares ; 
His daughter and his housemaid were the 

boys : 
The land he understood for miles about 
Wastill'd by women ; all the swine were sows, 
And -rfll the dogs — " 

But while he jested thus 



A thought flash'd thro' me which I cloth'd 

in act. 
Remembering how we three presented Maid 
Or Nymph, or Goddess, ai high tide offcast, 
In masque or pageant at my father's court. 
We sent mine host to purchase female gear ; 
He brought it, and himself, a sight to shake 
The midriff of despair with laughter, holp 
To lace us up, till, each, in maiden plumes 
We rustled : him we gave a costly bribe 
To guerdon silence, mounted our good steeds, 
And boldly ventured on the liberties. 

We follow'd up the river as we rode. 
And rode till midnight when the college lights 
Began to glitter firefly-like in copse 
And linden alley : then we past an arch. 
Whereon a woman-statue rose with wings 
From four wing'd horses dark against the 

stars ; 
And some inscription ran along the front. 
But deep in shadow : further on we gain'd 
A little street half garden and half house ; 
But scarce could hear each other speak for 

noise 
Of clocks and chimes, like silver hammers 

falling 
On silver anvils, and the .splash and stir 
Of fountains spoute'^ ^^and showering down 
In meshes of the jasmine and the rose : 
And all abo.it us peal'd the nightingale. 
Rapt in her jOng, and careless of the snare. 

There ?'.iod a bust of Pallas for a sign, 
By two s- .here lamps blazon'd like Heaven 

a:vJ Earth 
With tjr iistellation and with continent, 
Abov, in entry : riding in, we call'd ; 
A plu .ip-arm'd Ostleressand a stable wench 
Canif running at the call, and help'd us down. 
Thet slept a buxom hostess forth, and sail'd, 
Full alowii, before us into rooms which gave 
Upo 1 a pillar'd porch, the bases lost 
In Kurel : her we ask'd of that and this, 
And ,;ho were tutors. " Lady Blanche," she 

iaid, 
" And Lady Psyche.'' " Which was prettiest, 
Best-natured .' " " Lady Psyche." " Hers 

aiP we," 
One voice, we cried ; and I sat down and 

wrote. 
In such a hand as when a field of corn 
Bows all its ears before the roaring East : 

" Three ladies of the Northern empire pray 
Your Highness would enroll them with your 

own, 
As Lady Psyche's pupils." 

This I seal'd: 
The seal was Cupid bent above a scroll, 
And o'er his head Uraniavi Venus hung. 
And raised the blinamg bandage from hia 

eyes : 
I gave the letter to be sent with dav.'n : 
And then to bed, where half in doze I seem'd 
To float about a glimmering ni<^ht, and '-.atch 
A full .sea glazed with muftled moonlight, swell 
Ou some dark shore just seen that it was riciL 



84 



THE PRINCESS'. 



As thro' the land at eve we went, 

And pluck'd the ripen'd ears, 
Wc fell out, my wife and I, 
O we fell out I know not why, 
And kiss'd again with tears. 

For when we came where lies the child 

We lost in other years. 
There above the little grave, 
O there above the little grave. 

We kiss'd again with tears. 



II. 



At break of day the College Portress came : 
She brought us Academic silks, in hue 
The lilac, with a silken hood to each, 
And zoned with gold ; and now when these 

were on, 
And we as rich as moths from dusk cocoons, 
bhe, curtseying her obeisance, let us know 
The Princess Ida waited : out we paced, 
I first, and follosving thro' the porch that sang 
All round with laurel, issued in a court 
Compact of lucid marbles, boss'd with lengths 
Of classic frieze, with ample awnings gay 
Betwixt the pillars, and with great urns of 

flowers. 
The Muses and the Graces, group'd in threes, 
Enring'd a billowmg (buntam in the midst ; 
And here and there on lattice edges lay 
Or book or lute ; but hastily we past. 
And up a flight of stairs into the hall. 

There at a board by tome and paper sat. 
With two lame leopards couch'd beside her 

throne, 
All beauty compass'd in a female form, 
The Princess ; liker to ihe inhabitant 
Of some clear planet close upon the Sun, 
Than our man's earth ; such eyes were in 

her head, 
And so much grace and power, breathing 

down 
From over her arch'd brows, with every turn 
Lived thro' her to the tips of her long hands, 
And to her feet. She rose her height, and 

said: 

"We give you welcome : not without re- 
dound 
Of use and glory to yourselves ye come. 
The first-fruits of the s'.ranger : sftcvtime, 
And that full voice which circles round the 

grave, 
Wi'.l rank you nobly, mingled up v.'ith nie. 
Wliat ! are the ladies of your land so tall?" 
" We of the court," said Cyril. " From the 

court," 
She answer'd, " then ye know the Prince ? " 

and he : 
•"The climax of his age ! as tho' there were 
One rose in all the v.-orld, your Highness that, 
He v/orships your ideal." She replied : 
" We scarcely thought in our own hall to 

hear 
This barren verbiage, current among men, 



Like coin, the tinsel clink of compliment. 
Your flight from out your bookless wilds 

would seem 
As arguing love of knowledge and of power ; 
Your language proves you still the child. 

Indeed, 
We dream not of him : when we set out hand 
To this great work, we purposed with our- 

self 
Never to wed. You likewise will do well. 
Ladies, in entering here, to cast and fling 
The tricks, which make us toys of men, that so. 
Some future time, if so indeed you will, 
You may with those self-styled our lords ally 
Your fortunes, justlier balanced, scale with 

scale." 

At those high words, we, conscious of our- 
selves. 
Perused the matting ; then an oflScer 
Rose up, and read the statutes, such as these : 
Not for three years to correspond with home ; 
Not for three years to cross the liberties : 
Not for three years to speak with any men ; 
And many more, which hastily subscribed, 
We enter'd on the boards : and " Now," 

she cried, 
" Ye are green wood, see ye warp not. Look, 

our hall ! 
Our statues ! — not of those that men desire, 
Sleek Odalisques, or oracles of mode. 
Nor stunted squaws of West or East ; but she 
That taught the .Sabine how to rule, and she 
I'he foundress of the Babylonian wall, 
The Carian Artemisia strong in war, 
The Rhodope, that built the pyramid, 
Clelia, Cornelia, with the Palmyrene 
That fought Aurelian, and the Roman brows 
Of Agrippina. Dwell with these and lose 
Convention, since to look on noble forms 
^L^kes noble thro' the sensuous organism 
That which is higher. O lift your natures 

up: 
Embrace our aims : work out your freedom. 

Girls, 
Knowledge is now no more a foiuitain scal'd : 
Drink deep, until the habits of the slave. 
The sins of emptiness, gossip and spite 
And slander, die. Better not be at all 
Than not be noble. Le.ive us : you may go J 
I'o-day the Lady Psyche will harr.ngue 
The fresh arrivals of the week before ; 
For they press in from all the provinces, 
And fill the hive." 

She spoke, and bowing waved 
Dismissal : back again we crost the court 
To Lady P;;ycho's : as we enter'd in. 
There sat along the forms, like morning doves 
That sun tiicir milky bosoms on the thatch, 
A patient range of pur.ils ; she herself 
Erect behind a desk of satin-wood, 
A quick bnmette, well-moulded, falcon-eyed, 
And on the hither side, or so she look'd. 
Of twenty summers. At her left, a child, 
In shining draperies, headed like a .star, 
Her maiden babe, a double April old, 
Aglaia slept. Wo sat : the Lady glanced : 
Then Florian, but no livelier than the dame 






A MEDLEY. 



84 



That whlsper'd " Asses' ears " among the 

sedge, 
"My sister." "Comely too by all that's 

fair," 
Said Cyril. " O hush, hush ! " and she began. 

" This world was once a fluid haze of light. 
Till toward the centre set the starry tides. 
And eddied into buns, that wheeinig cast 
The planets : then the monster, then tne man ; 
Tattoo'd or woaded, winter-clad in skins. 
Raw from the prime, and crushing down his 

mate : . , , , 

As yet we find in barbarous isles, and here 
Among the lowest." 

Thereupon she took 
A bird's-eve view of ail the ungracious past. 
Glanced at the legendary Amazon 
As emblematic of a nobler age ; 
Apjiraised the Lycian custom, spoke of those 
That lay at wine with Lar and Lucumo;_ 
Ran down the Persian, Grecian, Roman lines 
Of empire, and the woman's state in each. 
How far from juit ; till, warming with her 

theme. 
She fulmined out her scorn of laws Salique 
And little-footed China, toucli'd on M.ahomet 
With much contempt, and came to chivalry: 
When some respect, however slight, was paid 
To woman, superstition all awry : 
However then commenced the dawn : a beam 
Had slanted forward, falling in a land 
Of promise ; fruit would follow. Deep, indeed, 
Their debt of thanks to her who first had dared 
To leap the rotten pales of prejudice, 
Disyoke their necks from custom, and assert 
None lordlier than themselves but that which 

made 
Woman and man. She had founded ; they 

must build. 
Here might they learn whatever vnew were 

taught : 
Let them not fear : some said their- heads 

were less : 
Some men's were small ; not they the least 

of men ; 
For often fineness compensated size : 
Besides the brain was like the hand, and grew 
With using ; thence the man's, if more, was 

more ; 
He took advantage of his strength to be 
First in ihe field : some ages had been lost ; 
But woman ripen'd earlier, and her life 
Was longer ; and albeit their glorious names 
Were fewer, scatter'd stars, yet since in truth 
The higliest is the measure of the man. 
And not the Kaffir, Hottent<it, Malay, 
Nor those horn-handed breakers of the glebe. 
But Homer, Plato, Verulam ; even so 
With woman : and in arts of government 
Elizabctli and others: arts of war 
The peasant Joan and others ; arts of grace 
Sappho and others vied with any man : 
And, last not least, she who had left her 

place. 
And bow'd her state to them, that they might 

grow 
To use and power on this Oasis, lapt 



In the arms of leisure =-.cred from the blight 
Of ancient influence and scorn." 

At last 
She rose upon a wind of prophecy 
Dilating on the future ; "everywhere 
Two heads in council, two beside the hearth, 
Two in the tangled business of the world, 
Two in the liberal oftices of life, 
Two plummets dropt for one to sound the 

abyss 
Of science, and the secrets of the mind: 
Musician, painter, sculptor, critic, more : 
And everywhere the broad and bounteous 

Earth 
Should bear a double growth of those rare 

souls, 
Poets, whose thoughts enrich the blood of the 

world." 

She ended here, and beckon'd us : the resf 
Parted ; and, glowing full-iaced welcome, she 
Began to address us, and was moving on 
In gratulalion, till as when a boat 
Tacks, and the slacken'd sail flaps, all her 

voice 
Faltering and fluttering in her throat, she 

cried, 
" My brother ! " " Well, my sister." " O," 

she said, 
"What do you here? and in this dress? and 

these ? 
Why who are these ? a wolf within the fold ! 
A pack of wolves ! the Lord be gracious to 

me ! 
A plot, a plot, a plot to niin all ! " 
" No plot, no plot," he answer'd. " Wretch- 
ed boy. 
How saw you not the inscription on the gate, 
Let no man enter in on p.mnofoeath ?" 
"And if I had," he answer'd, "who could 

think 
The softer Adams of ynvir .Academe, 
' !) sister, Sirens tho' they be, were such 
As chanted on the blanching bonesof men ? " 
" But you will find it otherwise," she said. 
" You jest : ill jesting with edge-tools ! my 

vow 
Binds me to speak, anJ O that iron will. 
That axelike edge unturnable, our Head, 
The Princess." "Well then. Psyche, take 

my life. 
And nail me like a weasel on a grange 
For warning : bury me beside the gate. 
And cut this epitaph above my bones ; 
Here lies a brother by a sister slain, 
A II /or the co7Hmon good of •womankinrf." 
" Let me die too," said Cyril, "having seen 
And heard the Lady Psyche." 

I struck in : 
" Albeit so mask'd. Madam, T love llie truth ; 
Receive it ; and in me behold the Prince 
Yonr cnnntryman, affianced years ago 
I'o I he l^ady Ida : here, for here she was, 
And thus (what other way was left?) I came." 
"O Sir, O Prince, I have no country; none; 
If any, this; but none. Whate'er I was 
Disrooted, what I am is grafted here. 
Af&aiiced, Sir? love-whispers maynot breathe 



86 



THE PRINCESS : 



Within this vestal limit, and how should I, 
Who am not mine, say, live : the thunderbolt 
Hangs silent ; but prepare : I speak ; it falls." 
"Yet pause," 1 said: "for that inscription 

there, 
I think no more of deadly lurks therein, 
Than in a clapper clapping in a garth, 
To scare the fowl from fruit : if more there be. 
If more and acted on, what follows? war; 
Your own work marr'd : for this your Ac- 
ademe, 
Whichever side be Victor, in the halloo 
Will topple to the trumpet down, and pass 
With all fair theories only made to gild 
A stormless summer." "Let the Princess 

judge 
Of that," slie said: "farewell, Sir — and to 

you. 
I shudder at the sequel, but I go." 

" Are you that Lady Psyche," I rejoin'd, 
"The fifih in line from that old Floriaii, 
Yet hangs his porU'ait in my father's hall 
(The gaunt old Baron with his beetle brow 
Sun-shaded in the heat of dusty fights) 
As he bestrode my Grandsire, when he fell, 
And all else fled : we point to it, and we 

say. 
The loyal warmth of Florian is not cold. 
But branches current yet in kindred veins." 
" Are you that Psyche," Florian added, " she 
With whom I sang about the morning hills, 
Flung ball, flew kite, and raced the purple 

fly, 

And snared the squirrel of the glen ? are you 
That Psyche, wont to bind my throbbing 

brow, 
To smooth my pillow, mix the foaming 

draught 
Of fever, tell me pleasant tales, and read 
My sickness down to happy dreams? are you 
That brother-sister Psyche, both in one? 
You were that Psyche, but what are you 

now ? " 
" You are that Psyche," Cyril said, " for 

whom 
I would be that forever which I seem. 
Woman, if I might sit beside your feet. 
And glean your scatter'd sapience." 

Then once more, 
"Are you that Lady Psyche," I began, 
" That on her bridal morn before she past 
From all her old companions, when the king 
Kiss'd her pale cheek, declared that ancient 

ties 
Would still be dear beyond the southern 

hills ; 
That were there any of our people there 
In want or peril, there was one to hear 
And help them : look ! for such are these 

and \." 
"Are you that P.sycho," Florian ask'd, "to 

whom. 
In gentler days, your arrow-wounded fawn 
Came flying while you sat beside the well ? 
The creature laid his muzzle on your lap. 
And sobb'd, and you sobb'd with it, and '.he 

blood 



Was sprinkled on your kirtle, and you wept. 
That was fawn's blood, not brother's, yet you 

wept. 
O by the bright head of my little niece. 
You were that Psyche, and what are you 

now? " 
" You are that Psyche," Cyril said again, 
" The mother of the sweetest little maid, 
That ever crow'd for kisses." 

" Out upon it ! " 
She answer'd, " peace ! and why should I not 

play 
The Spartan Mother with emotion, be 
The Lucius Junius Brutus of my kind? 
Him you call great : he forthe common weal, 
The fading politics of mortal Rome, 
As I might slay this child, if good need were. 
Slew both his sons : and 1, shall I, on whom 
The secular emancipation turns 
Of half this world, be swerved from right to 

save 
A prince, a brother? a little will I yield. 
Best so, perchance, for us, and well for you. 
O hard, when love and duty clash ! 1 fear 
My conscience will not count me fleckless; 

yet — 
Hear my conditions : promise (otherwise 
You perisli) as you came to slip away, 
To-day, to-morrow, soon : it shall be said, 
These women were too barbarous, would not 

learn ; 
They fled, who might have shamed us : 

promise, all." 

What could we else, we promised each ; 
and she. 
Like some wild creature newly caged, com- 
menced 
A to-and-fro, so pacing till she paused 
By Florian ; holding out her lily arms 
Took both his hands, and smiling faintly said : 
" I knew you at the first ; tho' you have grown 
You scarce have alter'd : 1 am sad and glad 
To fee you, Florian. / give tliee to death, 
My brother ! it was duty spoke, not I. 
My needful seeming harshness, pardon it. 
Our mother, is she well ?" 

With that she kiss'd 
His forehead, then, a moment after, clung 
About him, and betwixt them blossom'd up 
From out a common vein of memory 
Sweet household talk, and phrases of the 

hearth. 
And far allusion, till the gracious devirs 
Began to glisten and to fall : and while 
They stood, so rapt, we gazing, came a voice, 
" I brought a message hei'e from Lady 

Blanche." 
Back started she, and turning round we saw 
The Lady Blanche's daughter where shj 

stood, 
Melissa, with her hand Upon tlie lock. 
A rosy blonde, and in a college gown. 
That clad her like an April daffodilly 
(Her mother's color) with her lips apart, 
And all her thoughts as fair within her eyes. 
As bottom agates seen to wave and float 
In crystal currents of clear morniiig seas. 



A MEDLEY. 



87 



So stood that same fair creature at the door. 
Then Lady Psyche, " All — Melissa — you 1 
You heard us?" and Melissa, "O pardon 

me ! 
I heard, I could not help it, did not wish : 
But, dearest Lady, pray you fear me not, 
Nor think I bear that heart witliin my breast, 
To give three gallant gentlemen to death." 
" I trust you," said the oihcr, "lor we two 
Were always friends, none closer, elm and 

vine : 
But vet your mother's jealpus temperament — 
Let not your prudence, dearest, drowse, or 

prove 
The Banaid of a leaky vase, for fear 
This whole foundation ruin, and 1 lose 
My honor, these their lives." " Ah, fear me 

not," 
Replied Melissa ; "no — I would not tell, 
No, not fur all Aspasia's cleverness. 
No, not to answer, Madam, all those hard 

things 
That Sheba came to ask of Solomon." 
" Be it so," the other, " that we still may lead 
The new light up, and culminate in peace, 
For Solomon may come to Sheba yet." 
Said Cyril, " Madam, he the wisest man 
Feasted the woman wisest tlien, in halls 
Of Lebanoiiian cedar : nor should you 
(Tho' Madam you should answer, %ue would 

ask) 
Less welcome find among us, if you came 
Among us, debtors for our lives to you, 
Myself for something more." He said not 

what, 
But " Thanks," she answer'd, " go : we have 

been too long 
Togc-ther : keep your hoods about the face ; 
They do so that affect abstraction here. 
Speak little; mi.x not with the rest; and 

hold 
Your promise : all, I trust, may yet be well." 

We turn'd logo, but Cyril took the child. 
And held her round the knees against his 

waist. 
And blew the swoll'n cheek of a trumpeter. 
While Psyche watch'd them, smiling, and 

the child 
Push'd her Hat hand against his face and 

laugh'd ; 
And thus our conference closed. 

And then we strolled 
For half the day thro' stately theatres 
Bench'd crescent-wise. In each we sat, we 

heard 
The grave Professor. On the lecture slate 
The circle rounded under female hands 
With liawless demonstration : foUow'd then 
A classic lecture, rich in sentiment, 
With scraps of thunderous Epic lilted out 
By violet-hooded Doctors, elegies 
And quoted odes, and jewels five-words-long 
That on the stretch'd tortfinger ofnil Time 
Sparkle forever : then we dipt in all 
That treats of whatsoever is, the state. 
The total chronicles of man, the mind. 
The morals, something of the frame, the rock, 



The star, the bird, the fish, the shell, the 

(lower, 
Electric, chemic laws, and all the rest. 
And whatsoever can be taught and known ; 
Till liUe three horses that have broken 

tence. 
And glutted all nightlong breast-deep in com, 
We issued gorged with knowledge, and I 

spoke : 
" Why, Sirs, they do all this as well as we." 
"They hunt old trails," said Cyril, "very 

well ; 
But when did woman ever yet invent ?" 
" Ungracious !" answer'd Florian, " have you 

learnt 
No more from Psyche's lecture, you that 

talk'd 
The trash that made me sick, and almost 

sad ? " 
" O trash," he said, " but with a kernel in it. 
Should I not call her wise, who made me 

wise ? 
And learnt ? I learnt more from her in a flash, 
Than if my brainpan were an empty hull. 
And every Muse tumbled a science in. 
A thousand hearts lie fallow in these halls, 
.'\nd round these halls a thousand baby loves 
Ely twanging headless arrows at the hearts. 
Whence follows many a vacant pang ; but O 
With me, .Sir, enter'd in the bigger boy. 
The Head of ad t!ie golden-shafted firm. 
The long-limb'd ]ad that had a Psyche too ; 
He cleft me thro' the stomacher ; and now 
What think you of it, Elorian ? do I chase 
The substance or the shadow ? will it hold? 
I have no sorcerer's malison on me. 
No ghostly hauntings like his Highness. I 
Flatter myself that always everywhere 
I know the substance when I see it. Well, 
Are castles shadows? Three of them? Is 

she 
The sweet proprietress a shadow? If not. 
Shall those three castles patch my tatter'd 

coat ? 
For dear are those three castles to my wants, 
And dear is sister Psyche to my heart. 
And tv,'o dear things are one of double worth, 
And much I might have said, but that my 

zone 
Unmann'd me : then the Doctors ! O to 

hear 
The Doctors ! O to watch the thirsty plants 
Imbibing ! once or twice I thought to roar. 
To break my chain, to shake my mane : but 

thou, 
Modulate me, Soul of mincing mimicry ! 
Make liquid treble of that bassoon, my 

throat ; 
Abase those eyes that ever loved to meet 
Star-sisters answering under crescent brows ; 
Abate the stride, which speaks of man, and 

loose 
A flying charm of blushes o'er this cheek, 
Where they like swallows coming out of 

time 
Will wonder why they came ; but hark the 

bell 
For dinner, let us go I " 



88 



THE PRINCES:: t 



And in we stream'd 
Among tlie columns, pacing staid and still 
liy twus and threes, till all iVom end to end 
With beauties every shade of brown and 

lair. 
In colors gayer than the morning mist, 
The long hall glitter'd like a bed of (lowers. 
How might a man not wander from his wits 
Pierced thro' with eyes, but that 1 kept mine 

own 
Intent on her, who rapt in glorious dreams, 
The second-sight of some Astr.-ean age. 
Sat compass'd with professors : they, the 

while, 
Discuss'd a doubt and tost it to and fro : 
A clamor thicken'd, mixt with inmost terms 
Of art and science : Lady Blanche alone 
Of faded form and haughtiest lineaments, 
With all her Autumn tresses falsely brown, 
Shot sidelong daggers at us, a tiger-cac 
In act to spring. 

At last a solemn grace 
Concluded, and we sought the gardens : there 
One walk'd reciting by herself, and one 
In this hand held a volume as to read, 
And smoothed a petted peacock down with 

that : 
Some to a low song oar'd a shallop by, 
Or under arclies of the marble bridge 
Hung, shadow'd from the lieat : some hid 

and sought 
In the orange thickets : others tost a ball 
Above the fountam-jets, and back again 
With laughter: others lay about the lawns, 
Of the older sort, and murmur'd that their 

May 
Was passing : what was learning unto them .' 
They wish'd to marry ; they could rule a 

house ; 
Men hated learned women : but we three 
Sat niufFled like the Fates ; and often came 
Melissa hitting all we saw with shafts 
Of gentle satire, kin to charity. 
That harm'd not : then day droopt ; the 

chapel bells 
Call'd us : we left the walks ; we mixt with 

those 
Six hundred maidens clad in purest white, 
Before two streams of light from wall to wall, 
While the great organ almost burst his pipes, 
Groaning for power, and rolling thro' the 

court 
A long melodious thunder to the sound 
Of solemn psalms, and silver litanies. 
The work of Ida, to call down from Heaven 
A blessing on her labors for the world. 



Sweet and low, sweet and low, 

Wind of the western sea. 
Low, low, breathe and blow. 

Wind of the western sea I 
Over the rolling waters go. 
Come troni the dying moon, and blow, 

Blow him again to me : 
While my little one, while my pretty one, 
sleeps. 



Sleep and rest, sleep and rest. 

Father will come to thee soon : 
Rest, rest, on mother's breast, 

Fatiier will come to thee soon ; 
Father willcome to his babe in the nest, 
Silver sails all out of the west 

Under the silver moon : 
Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, 
sleep. 



^in. 

Morn in the white wake of the morning 

star 
Came furrowing all the orient into gold. 
We rose, and each by other drest with care 
Descended to the court that lay three parts 
111 shadow, but the Muses' heads were 

touch'd 
Above tlie darkness from tlieir native East. 

There while we stood beside the fount, 
and watch'd 
Or seem'd to watch the dancing bubble, 

approach'd 
Melissa, tinged with wan from lack of sleep, 
Or grief, and g;lowing round her dewy eyes 
The circled Iris of a night of tears; 
" And fly," she cried, " O tly, while yet you 

may ! 
My mother knows " : and when I ask'd her 

" how," 
" My fault," she wept, "ray fault! and yet 

not mine ; 
Yet mine in part. O hear me, pardon me. 
My mother,' t is her wont from night to night 
To rail at Lady Psyche and her side. 
She says the Princess should have been the 

Head, 
Herself and Lady Psyche the two arms ; 
And so it was agreed vvlien first they came ; 
But Lady Psyche was the right hand now. 
And she the left, or not, or seldom used ; 
Hers more than half the students, all the 

love. 
And so last night she fell to canvass you : 
''^ Her countrywomen! she did not envy 

her. 
Who ever saw such wild barbarians ? 
Girls? — more like men ! " and at these words 

the snake. 

My secret, seem'd to stir within my breast ; 

And O, .Sirs, could I help it, but my cheek 

Began to burn and burn, and her lynx eye 

To fix and make me hotter, till she laugh'd : 

" O marvellously modest maiden, you ! 

Men ! girls, like men ! why, if they had been 

men 
You need not set your thoughts in rubric 

thus 
For wholesale comment." Pardon, I am 

shamed 
That I must needs repeat for my excuse 
What looks so little graceful : " men " (fo» 

still 
My mother went revolving on the word) 
" And so they are, — very like men indeed — 



A MEDLEY. 



89 



And with that woman closeted for liours ! " 
Then came these dreadlul words out one by 

one, 
" Why — these —are — men " : I shudder'd : 

"and you know it." 
"O ask me nothing," I said: "And she 

knows too. 
And she conceals it." So my mother chitch'd 
The truth at once, but with no word Irom me ; 
And now thus early risen she goes to inform 
The Princess: Lady Psyche will be crush'd ; 
But you may yet be saved, and therefore fly : 
But heal me with your pardon ere you go." 

"What pardon, sweet Melissa, for a 

blush?" 
Said Cyril : " Pale one, blush again : than 

wear 
Those lilies, better blush our lives away. 
Yet let us breathe for one hour more in 

Heaven," 
He added, " lest some classic Angel speak 
In scorn of us, ' they mounted, Ganymedes, 
To tumble, Vulcans, on the second morn.' 
But I will melt this marble into wa.K 
To yield us farther furlough " : and he went. 

Melissa shook her doubtful curls, and 

thought 
He scarce would prosper. " Tell us," Florlan 

a.sk'd, 
" How grew this feud betwixt the right and 

left." 
"O long ago," she said, " betwixt these two 
Division smoulders hidden : 't is my mother. 
Too jealous, often fretful as the wind 
Pent in a crevice : much I bear with her : 
1 never knew my father, but she says 
(God help her) she was wedded to a fool ; 
And still she rail'd against the state of things. 
She had the care of Lady Ida's youth, 
And from the Queen's decease she brought 

her up. 
But when your sister came she won the heart 
Of Ida : they were still together, grew 
(For so they said themselves) inosculated ; 
Consonant chords that shiver to one note ; 
One mind in all things : yet my mother still 
Affirms your Psyche thieved her theories. 
And angled with them for her pupil's love : 
She calls her plagiarist ; I know not what : 
But I must go : I dare not tarry," and light. 
As flies the shadow of a bird, she fled. 

Then murmur'd Florian, gazing after her: 
"An open hearted maiden, true and pure. 
If I could love, why this were she : how 
pretty 
• Herblushing was, and how she blush'd again. 
As if to close with Cyril's random wish : 
Not like your Princess cramm'd with erring 

pride. 
Nor like poor Psyche whom she drags in tow. " 

" The crane," I said, " may chatter of the 
crane. 
The dove may murmur of the dove, but I 
(In eagle clang an eagle to the sphere. 



My princess, O my princejs ! true she errs. 
But in her own grand way ; being herself 
Three times more noble than three-score of 

nien. 
She sees herself in every woman else. 
And so she wears her error like a crown 
To blind the truth and me : tor her, and her, 
Hebes are they to hand ambrosia, mix 
The nectar; but — ah she — whene'er she 

moves 
The Samian Herfe rises and she speaks 
A Memnon smitten with the morning Sun." 

So saying, from the court we paced, and 

gain'd 
The terrace ranged along the Northern front, 
And leaning there on those balusters, high 
Above the empurpled champaign, drank the 

gale 
That blown about the foliage underneath, 
And sated with the innumerable rose. 
Beat balm upon our eyelids. Hither came 
Cyril, and yawning " O hard task," he cried : 
" No fighting shadows here ! I forced a way 
Thro' solid opposition crabb'd and gnarl'd. 
Better to clearprime forests, heave and thump 
A league of street in summer solstice down, 
Than hammer at this reverend gentlewoman. 
I knock'd and, bidden, enter'd ; found her 

there 
At point to move, and settled in her eyes 
The green malignant light of coming storm. 
Sir, 1 was courteous, every phrase well-oil'd, 
Asnian'scould be : yet maiden-meek I pray'd 
Concealment: she demanded who we were, 
And why we came? I fabled nothing fair, 
But, your example pilot, told her ah. 
Up went the hush'd amaze of hand and 

eye. 
But when I dwelt upon your old affiance. 
She answer'd sharply that I talk'd astray. 
I urged the fierce inscription on the gate. 
And our three lives. True — we had limed 

ourselves. 
With open eyes, and we must take the chance. 
But such extremes, I told her, well might 

harm 
The woman's cause. " Not more than now," 

she said, 
" So puddled as it is with favoritism." 
I tried the mother's heart. Shame might 

befall 
Melissa, knowing, saying not she knew : 
Her answer was, " Leave nie to deal with 

that." 
I spoke of war to come and many deaths. 
And she replied, her duty was to speak, 
And duty duty, clear of con.sequences. 
I grew discouraged, Sir, but since I knew 
No rock so hard but that a little wave 
May beat admission in a thousand years, 
I recommenced : " Decide not ere you pause. 
I find you here but in the second place 
Some say the third — tlie authentic foundress 

you. 
I offer boldly : we will seat you highest : 
Wink at our advent : helj) my prince to gain 
His rightful bride, and here I promise you 



go 



THE PRINCESS: 



Some palace in our land, where you shall 

reign 
The head and heart of all our fair she-world. 
And your great name flow on with bruaduu- 

ing lime 
Forever." Well, she balanced this a little. 
And told me she would answer us to-day. 
Meantime be mute : thus much, nor more I 

gain'd." 

He ceasing, came a message from the Head. 
" That afternoon the Princess rode to take 
The dip of certain strata to the North. 
Would we go with her? we should find the 

land 
Worth seeing ; and the river made a fall 
Out yonder " ; then she pointed on to where 
A double hill ran up his turrowy forks 
Beyond the thick-leaved platans of the vale. 

Agreed to, this, the day fled on thro' all 
Its range of duties to the appointed hour. 
Then summon'd to the porch we went. She 

stood 
Among her maidens, higher by the head. 
Her back against a pillar, her foot on one 
Of those tame leopards. Kiltenlike he roll'd 
And paw'd about her sandal. I drew near : 
1 gazed. On a sudden my strange seizure 

came 
Upon me, the weird vision of our house : 
The Princess Ida seem'da hollow show. 
Her gay-furr'd cats a painted fai;tasy. 
Her college and her maidens, empty masks. 
And I mvself the shadow of a dream. 
For all things were and were not. Yet I felt 
My heart beat thick with passion and with 

awe ; 
Then from my breast the involuntary sigh 
Brake, as she smote me with the light of 

eyes 
That lent my knee desire to kneel, and shook 
My pulses, till to horse we got, and so 
Went forth in long retinue following up 
The river as it narrow'd to the hills. 

I rode beside her and to me she said : 
"O friend, we trust that you esteem'd us not 
Too harsh to your companion yester-morn ; 
Unwillingly we spake." " No — not to her," 
\ ansvver'd, " but to one of whom we spake 
if our Highness might have seem'd the thing 

you say." 
"Again?" she cried, "are you ambassa- 
dresses 
From him to me ? we give you, being strange, 
A license : speak, and let the topic die." 

I stammer'd that I knew him — could have 
wish'd — 
"Our king expects — was there no precon- 
tract ? 
There is no truer-hearted — ah, you seem 
All he prefig(ned, and he could not see 
The bird of passage flying south but long'd 
To follow: surely, if your Highness keep 
Your purport, you will shock him ev'u to 

death, 
Or baser courses, children of despair." 



"Poor boy," she said, "can he not read 

— no books? 
Quoit, tennis, ball — no games? nor deals in 

that 
Which inen delight in, martial exercise? 
To nurse a blind ideal like a girl, 
Methinks he seems no better than a girl; 
As girls were once, as we ourself have 

been : 
We had our dreams ; perhaps he mixt with 

them : 
We touch on our dead self, nor shun to do it, 
Being other — since we learnt our meaning 

here. 
To lift the woman's fall'n divinity. 
Upon an even pedestal with man." 

She paused, and added with a haughtier 

smile : 
" And as to precontracts, we move, my 

friend. 
At no man's beck, but know ourself and 

thee, 

Vashti, noble Vashti ! Summon'd out 
She kept her state, and left the drunken king 
To brawl at Shushan underneath the palms." 

"Alas your Highness breathes full East," 
I said, 
" On that which leans to you. I know the 
Prince, 

1 prize his truth : and then how vast a work 
'I'o assail this gray pre-eminence of man ! 
You grant me license ; might 1 use it ? think, 
Ere half be done perchance your life may 

fail : 
Then comes the feebler heiress of your plan, 
And lakes and ruins all ; and thus your pains 
May only make that footprint upon sand 
Which old-recurring waves of prejudice 
Resmooth to nothing : might 1 dread that 

you, 

With only Fame for spouse and your great 

deeds 
For issue, yet may live in vain, and miss, 
Meanwhile, what every woman counts her 

due. 
Love, children, happiness?" 

And she exclaim'd, 
" Peace, you young savage of the Northern 

wild ! 
What ! tho' your Prince's love were like a 

God's, 
Have we not made ourself the sacrifice? 
You are bold indeed : we are not talk'd to 

thus : 
Yet will we say for children, would they grew 
Like field-flowers everywhere ! we like them 

well : 
Rut children die ; and let me tell you, girl, 
Howe'eryou babble, great deeds cannot die : 
They with the sun and moon renew their 

light 
Forever, blessing those that look on them. 
Children — that men may pluck them from 

our hearts. 
Kill us with pity, break us with ourselves — 
O — children — there is nothing upon earth 



A MEDLEY. 



9' 



M(,re miserable than she that has a son 
And sees him err: nor vvmild we worli for 

fame ; 
The' she perhaps might reap the applause of 

Great, 
Who learns the one pou sto whence after- 
hands 
May move the world, tho' site herself effect 
But little : wherefore up and act, nor shrink 
For fear our solid aim be dissipated 
By frail successors. Would, indeed, we had 

been, 
In lieu of many mortal flies, a race 
Of giants living, each, a thousand years, 
That we might see our owu work out, and 

watch 
The sandy footprint harden into stone." 

I answer'd nothing, doubtfid in myself 
If that strange Poet-princess with her grand 
Imagin-.tions might at all be won. 
And she broke out interpreting my thoughts : 

" No doubt we seem a kind of monster to 

you ; 
We are used to that : for women, up till this 
Cramp'd under worse than South sea isle 

taboo. 
Dwarfs of the gvn^ceum, fail so far 
In high desire they know not, camiot guess 
Ho-.v much their welfare is a passjon to us. 
If we could give them surer, quickerproof — 
O if our end were less achievable 
By slow approaclie-j, than by single act 
Of immolation, any ph.ise of death, 
We were as prompt to spring against the 

pikes. 
Or down the fiery gulf as talk of it. 
To compass our dear sisters' liberties." 

She bow'd as if to veil a noble tear ; 
And up we came to where the river sloped 
To plunge in cataract, shattering on black 

blocks 
A breath of thunder. O'er it shook the woods. 
And danced the co'or, and, below, stuck out 
The bones of some vast bulk that lived and 

roar'd 
Before man was. She gazed awhile and said, 
" As these rude bones to us, are we to her 
That will be." "Dare we dream of that," I 

ask'd, 
" Which wrought us, as the workman and his 

work, 
That practice betters ? " " How," she cried, 

" you love 
Tho metaphysics ! read and earn our prize, 
A golden broach : beneath an emerald plane 
Sits Diotim.a, teaching him that died 
Of hemlock ; our device ; wrong' it to the life ; 
She rapt upon her subject, he on her : 
For there are schools for all." " And yet," I 

said, 
" Methinks I have not found among them 

all 
One anatomic." " Nay, we thought of that," 
She answer'd, "but it pleased us not: in truth 



We shudder but to dream our inaids should 

ape 
Those monstrous males that carve the living 

hound. 
And cram him with the fragments of the 

grave, 
Or in the dark dissolving human heart, 
And holy secrets of this microcosm, 
Dabbhng a shameless hand with shameful 

jest, 
Encarnalize their spirits : yet we know 
Knowledge is knowledge, and this matter 

hangs : 
Howbeit ourself, foreseeing casualty, 
Nor willing men should come among us, 

learnt, 
Kor many weary moons before we came. 
This craft of healing. Were you sick, our- 
self 
Would tend upon you. To your question 

now. 
Which touches on the workman and his work. 
Let there be liglit and there was light : 't is so: 
For was, and is, and will be, are but is ; 
And all creation is one act at once. 
The birth of light : but we that are not all, 
As parts, can see but parts, now this, now 

that, 
And live, perforce, from thought to thought, 

and make 
One act a phantom of succession : thus 
Our weakness somehow shapes the shadow, 

Time ; 
P.nt in the shadow will we work, and mould 
The woman to the fuller day." 

She spake 
With kindled eves : we rode a league beyond. 
And, o'er a bridge of pincwood crossing, came 
On flowery levels underneath the crag. 
Full of all beauty. " O how sweet," I said, 
(P'or I was half-oblivious of my mask,) 
'■ To lineer here with one that loved us." 

"Yea," 
She answer'd, "or with fair philosophies 
That lilt the fancy ; for indeed these fields 
A'-e lovely, lovelier not the Elysian lawns. 
Where paced the Demigods of old, and saw 
The soft white vapor streak the crowned 

towers 
Built to the Sun " : then, turning to her 

maids, 
" Pitch our pavilion here upon the sward : 
Lay out the viands." At the word, they raised 
A tent of satin, elaborately wrought 
With fair Corinna's triumph ; here she stood. 
Engirt with many a florid maiden-cheek. 
The woman-conqueror : woman-conquer'd 

there 
The bearded Victor of ten-thou.sand hymns. 
And all the men mourn'd at his side : but we 
Set forth to climb : then, climbing. Cyril kept 
With Psyche, with Melissa Florian, I 
With mine affianced. Many a little hand 
Glanced like a touch of sunshine on the rocks, 
Many a light foot shone like a jewel set 
In the dark crag : and then we turn'd, we 

wound 
About the cliffs, the copses, out and m, 



,92 



THE PRINCESS 



Hnmmering and clinking, chattering stony 

names 
Of shale and hornblende, rag and trap and 

tuff. 
Amygdaloid and trachyte, till the Sini 
Grew broader toward his death and tell, and 

all 
The rosy heights cnme out above the lawns. 

The splendor falls on castle walls 

And snowy summits old in story : 
The long light shakes across the lakes 
And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, 
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, 
dying. 

O hark, O hear ! how thin and clear. 

And thinner, clearer, farther going 1 
O sweet and far from cliff and scar 
The horns of Eltland faintly blowing ! 
Blow, let us hear the purple gens replying : 
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, 
dying. 

O love, they die in yon rich sky. 

They faint on hill or field or river: 
Our echoes roll from soul to soul. 
And grow forever and forever. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, 
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, 
, dying. 



IV. 

"There sinks the nebulous star we call the 

Sun, 
If that hypothesis of theirs be sound," 
Said Ida ; "let us down and rest " : and we 
Down from the lean and wrinkled precipices, 
By everv coppice-feather'd chasm and clett, 
Dropt thro' the ambrosial gloom to where 

below 
No bigiier than a glow-worm shone the tent 
Lamp-lit from the inner. Once she lean'd 

on me. 
Descending ; once or twice she lent her hand. 
And blissful palpitations in the blood. 
Stirring a sudden transport rose and fell. 

But when we planted level feet, and dipt 
Beneath the satin dome and enter'd in, 
There leaning deep in broider'd down we 

sank 
Our elbows : on a tripod in the midst 
A fragrant flame rose, and before us glnw'd 
Fruit, blossom, viand, amber wine, and gold. 

Then she, " Let some one sing to us ; 

Ii<;htlier move 
The minutes fledged with music": and a 

maid, 
Of those beside her, smote her harp, and 

sang. 

" 'I'ears, idle tears, 1 know not what they 
lueau, 



Tears from the depth of some d'^v'ine despair 
Rise in tlie heart, and gather to the eyes. 
In looking on the hafipy Autumn-fields, 
And thinking ol the days that ate no more. 

" I'resh as the first beam glittering on a 
sail, 

That brings our friends up from the under- 
world. 

Sad as the last which reddens over one 

That sinks with all we love below the' verge; 

So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. 

"Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer 

dawns 
The earliest pipe of half awaken'd birds 
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes 
1 he casement slowly grows a glimmering 

square ; 
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more. 

" Dear as rcmember'd kisses after death. 
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd 
On lips that are for others ; deep as love. 
Deep as first love, and wild wilh all regret ; 
O Death in Life, the days that are no more." 

She ended with such passion that the tear, 
She sang of, shook and fell, an erring pearl 
Lost in her bosom : but with some disdain 
Answered the Princess : " If indeed there 

haunt 
About the moulder'd lodges of the Past 
.So sweet a voice and vague, fatal to men. 
Well needs it we should cram our ears with 

wool 
And so pace by : but thine are fancies hatch'd 
In silken-foided idleness ; nor is it 
Wiser to weep a true occasion lost, 
P.ut trim our sails, and let old bygones be, 
While down the streams that float us each 

and all 
To the issue, goes, like glittering bergs of ice, 
Throne after throne, and molten on the waste 
Becomes a cloud : for all things serve their 

time 
Toward that great year of equal mights and 

rights, 
Nor would I fight with iron laws, in the end 
Found golden : let the past be past ; let be 
Their cancell'd Babels : tho' the rough kex 

break 
The starr'd mosaic, and the wild goat hang 
Upon the shaft, and the wild fig-tree split 
Their monstrous idols, care not while we hear 
A trumpet in the distance pealing news 
Of better, and Hope, a poising eagle, burns 
Above the unrisen morrow" : then to me, 
" Know vou no song of your own land," she 

said, 
' Not such as moans about the retrospect,^ 
But deals with the other distance and the 

hues 
Of promise ; not a death's-head at the wine." 

Then I remember'd one myself had made, 
Wht.t time 1 watch'd the swallow winging 
south 



A MEDLEY. 



From mine own land, part made long snice, 

and part 
Now while 1 sang, and maidenlike as far 
As I could ape their treble, did I sing. 

"O Swallow,. Swallow, flying, flying South, 
Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves. 
And tell her, tell her what I tell to thee. 

" O tell her, Swallow, thou that knowest 
each. 
That bright and fierce and fickle is the South, 
And dark and true and tender is the North. 

" O Swallow, Swallow, if I could follow 
and light 
Upon her lattice, I would pipe and trill. 
And cheep and twitter twenty million loves. 

" O were I thou that she might take me in. 
And lay me on her bosom, and her heart 
Would rock the snowy cradle till I died. 

"Why lingereth she to clothe her heart 

with love. 
Delaying as the tender ash delays 
To cloiiie herself, when all the woods are 

green ? 

"O tell her. Swallow, that thy brood is 
flown : 
Say to her, I do but wanton in the South 
But in the North long since my nest is made. 

" O tell her, brief is life, but love is long. 
And brief the sun of summer in the North, 
And brief the moon of beauty in the South. 

"O Swallow, flying from the golden woods. 
Fly to her, and pipe and woo her, and make 

her mine. 
And tell her, tell her, that I follow thee." 

I ceased, and all the ladies, each at each. 
Like the Ithacensian suitors in old time, 
Stared with great eyes, and laugh'd with alien 

lips. 
And knew not what they meant ; for still my 

voice 
Rang false : but smiling, " Not for thee," she 

said, 
" O Hulbul, any rose of Gulistan 
Shall burst her veil : marsh-divers, rather, 

maid. 
Shall croak thee sister, or the meadow-crake 
Grate her harsh kindred in the grass : and 

this 
A mere love-poem ! O for .such, my friend, 
We hold them slight : they mind us of the 

time 
When we made bricks in Egypt. Knaves 

are men. 
That lute and flute fantastic tenderness. 
And dress the victim to the offering up. 
And paint the gates of Hell with Paradise, 
And play the slave to gain the tyranny. 
Poor soul ! I had a maid of honor once ; 
She wept her true eyes blind for such a one. 



A rogue of canionats and serenades. 

I loved her. Pe.icebe with her. She is dead. 

So they blaspheme the muse ! but great is 

song 
Used to great ends : ourself have often tried 
Valkyrian hymns, or into rhythm have dash'd 
The passion of the prophetess ; for song 
Is duer unto treedom, force and growth 
Of spirit, than to junketing and love. 
Love is it ? Would this same mock-love, and 

this 
Mock-Hymen were laid up like winter bats. 
Till all men grew to rate us at our worth, 
Not vassals to be beat, nor pretty babes 
To be dandled, no, bat living wills, and 

sphered 
Whole in ourselves and owed to none. 

Enough ! 
But now to leaven play with profit, you. 
Know you no song, the true growth of your 

soil, 
That gives the manners of your country- 
women ?" 

She spoke and turn'd her sumptuous head 

with eyes 
Of shining expectation fixt.on mine. 
Then while I dragg'd my brains for such a 

song, 
Cyril, with whom the bell-mouth'd flask had 

wrought. 
Or master'd by the sense of sport, began 
I'o troll a careless, careless tavern-catch 
Of Moll and Meg, and strange experiences 
Unmeet for ladies. Florian nodded at hiin, 
I frowning ; Psyche flush'd and wann'd and 

shook ; 
The lilylike Melissa droop'd her brows ; 
" Forbear," the Princess cried ; " Forbear, 

Sir," I : 
And heated thro' and thro' with wrath and 

love, 
I smote him on the breast ; he started up ; 
There rose a shriek as of a city sack'd ; 
Melissa clamor'd, "Flee the death"; "To 

horse," 
Said Ida ; " home ! to horse ! " and fled, as 

flies 
A troop of snowy doves athwart the dusk, 
When some one batters at the dovecote- 
doors. 
Disorderly the women. Alone I stood 
With Florian, cursing Cyril, vext at heart, 
In the pavilion : there like parting hopes 
I heard them passing from me : hoof by 

hoof. 
And every hoof a knell to my desires, 
Clang'd on the bridge ; and then another 

shriek, 
"The Head, the Head, the Princess, O the 

Head ! " 
For blind with rage she miss'd the plank, and 

roll'd 
In the river. Out I sprang from glow to 

gloom : 
There whirl'd her white robe like a blos- 

som'd branch 
Rapt to the horrible fall : a glance I gave. 



94 



THE PRINCESS : 



No more ; but woman-vested as I was 
Plunged ; and llie tlood drew ; yet I caught 

her ; then 
Oaring one arm, and bearing in my left 
The weight olall the hopesuf halt the world, 
Strove to buffet to land in vain. A tree 
Was half-disrooted from his place and stoop'd 
To drench his dark locks in the gurgling wave 
Mid-channel. Right on this we drove and 

caught, 
And grasping down the boughs I gain'd the 

shore. 

There stood her maidens glimmeringly 

group'd 
In the hollow bank. One reaching forward 

drew 
My burtlien from mine arms ; they cried, 

" She lives ! " 
They bore her back into the tent : but I, 
So much a kind of shame within nic wrought, 
Not yet endured to meet her opening eyes, 
Nor found my friends ; but push'd alone on 

foot 
(For since Iier horse was lost I left her mine) 
Across the woods, and less from Indian craft 
Than beelike instinct hiveward, found at 

length 
The garden portals. Two great statues, Art 
And Science, Caryatids, lifted up 
A weight of emblem, and betwixt were valves 
Of open-work in which the hunter rued 
His rash intrusion, manlike, but his brows 
Had sprouted, and the branches thereujion 
Spread out at top, and grimly spiked the 

gates. 

A little space was left between the horns. 
Thro' which 1 claniber'd o'er at lop with 

pain, 
Dropt on the sward, and up the linden walks. 
And, tost on thoughts that changed from luie 

to hue. 
Now poring on the glow-worm, now the star, 
I paced the terrace till the bear had wheel'd 
Thro' a great arc his seven slow suns. 

A step 
Of lightest echo, then a loftier form 
Than female, moving thro' the uncertain 

gloom, 
Disturb'd me with the doubt " if this were 

she," 
But it was Florian. " Hist, O hist," he said, 
" They seek us : out so lale is out of rules. 
Moreover ' Seize the strangers ' is the cry. 
How came you here ? " I told him : " 1," said 

he, 
" Last of the train, a moral leper, I, 
To whom none spake, half-sick at heart, re- 

turn'd. 
Arriving all confused among the rest 
With hooded brows I crept into the hall. 
And, couch'd behind a Judith, underneath 
The head of Holofernes peep'd and saw. 
Girl after girl was call'd to trial : each 
Disclaim'd all knowledge of us : last of all, 
Melissa : trust me, Sir, I pitied her. 
She, question'd if she knew us men, at first 



Was silent : closer prcst, denied it not 
And then, demanded if her mother knew, 
Or Psyche, she afiftrrn'd not, or denied : 
From whence the Royal mind, familiar with 

her. 
Easily gather'd either guilt. • She sent 
For Psyche, but she was not there ; she 

call'd 
For Psyche's child to cast it from the doors; 
She sent for Blanche to accuse her face to 

face ; 
And I siipt out: but whither will you now? 
And where are Psyche, Cyril? both are fled: 
What, if together ? that were not so well. 
Would rather we had never come ! I dread 
His wildness, and the chances of the dark." 

"And yet," I said, "you wrong him more 

than I 
That struck him : this is proper to the clown, 
Tho' smock'd, of furr'd and purpled, still the 

clown, 
To harm the thing that trusts him, and to 

shame 
That which he says he loves : for Cyril, 

howe'er 
He deal in frolic, a^ to-r.ight — the song 
Might have been worse and sinn'd \\\ grosser 

lips 
Pieyond all pardon — as it is, I hf^Ia 
'I'hese flashes on the .surface ar' not he. 
He has a solid base of temper.nicnt : 
l)i;t as the water-lily starts and slides 
Upon the level in little puflV oi wind, 
Tho' anchor'd to the bottoi«i, F jch -is he." 

Scarce had I ceased when from a tamarisk 

near 
Two Proctors leapt upon us, crving, 

" Names," 
He, standing still, was clutch'd ; but I began 
To thrid the musky-circled ];iazes, wind 
And double in and out the boles, and race 
By all the fountains : fleet I was of foot : 
Before me shower'd the rose in flakes ; be- 
hind 
I heard the puff d pursuer : at mine ear 
Bubbled the nightingale and heeded not, 
And secret laughter tickled all my soul. 
At last I hdok'd my ankle in a vine. 
That claspt the feet of a Mnemosyne- 
And fallir.g on my face was caught and 
known. 

They haled us to the Princess \vh«rc she 

sat 
High in the hall : above lier droop'd a lamp, 
And made the single jewel on her brow 
llurn like the mystic lire on a mast-head, _ 
Prophet of storm : i 'i n Irraid on e.~cl) side 
Bow'd toward her, combing out her long 

black hai; 
Damp fro?u the river ; and clooe beh"id her 

stood 
Eight daughters oi \\m plough, strong"rthan 

men. 
Huge women blow<e/5 <vitn hekith, ant- wind. 

and raiu. 



A MEDLEY. 



95 



And labor. Each was like a Druid rock ; 
Or like a spire of land that stands apart 
Cleft t'roni llie main, and vvail'd about with 



Then, as we came, the crowd dividing clove 
An advent to the throne ; and there-beside, 
Half-naked, as if caught at once from bed 
And tumbled on the purple footcloth, lay 
The lily-shining child ; and on the left, 
Bow'd on her palms and folded up from 

wrong. 
Her round white shoulder shaken with her 

sobs, 
Melissa knelt ; but Lady Blanche erect 
Stcod up and spake, an affluent orator. 

" It was not thus, O Princess, in old days : 
You prized my counsel, lived upon my lips : 
I led you then to all the Castalies ; 
I fed you with the milk of every Muse ; 
I loved you like this kneeler, and you me 
Your second mother : those were gracious 

times. 
Then came your new friend : you began to 

change — 
I saw it and grieved — to slacken and to cool ; 
Till taken with her seeming openness 
You turned your warmer currents all to her. 
To me you froze : this was my meed for all. 
Yet I bore up in part from ancient love. 
And partly that I hoped to win you back. 
And partly conscious of my own deserts, 
And partly that you were my civil head, 
And chiefly you were born for something 

great, 
In which I might your fellow-worker be. 
When time should serve ; and thus a noble 

scheme 
Grew up from seed we too long since had 

sown ; 
In lis true growth, in her a Jonah's gourd. 
Up in one night and due to sudden sun : 
We look this palace ; but even from the first 
You stood in your own light and darken'd 

mine. 
What student came but that you planed her 

path 
To Lady Psyche, younger, not so wise, 
A foreigner, and 1 your countrywojnan, 
I your old Iriend and tried, she new in all ? 
But still her lists were swell'd and mine were 

lean ; 
Yet I bore up in hope she would be knovvn : 
Then came the.se wolves: ikey knew her: 

they endured. 
Long-closeted with her the yester morn. 
To tell her what they were, and she to hear : 
And me none told : not less to an eye like 

mme, 
A lidless watcher of the public weal. 
Last night, their mask was patent, and my 

foot 
Was to you : but I thought again : I fear'd 
To meet a cold ' We thank you, we shall 

hear of it 
From Lady Psyche ' : you had gone to her. 
She told, perforce ; and winning easy grace, 



No doubt, for slight delay, remain'd among 

us 
In our young nursery still unknown, the stem 
Less grain than touchwood, while my honest 

^hoat 
Were all miscounted as malignant haste 
To push my rival out of place and power. 
But public use required she should be 

known ; 
And since my oath was la'en for public use, 
I broke the letter of it to keep the sense. 
I sooke not then at first, but watch'd them 

well, 
.Saw that they kept apart, no mischief done ; 
And yet this day (tho' you should hate me 

for it) 
I came to tell you : found that you had gone, 
Ridd'n to the hills, she likewise : now, I 

thought. 
That surely she will speak ; if not, then I : 
Did she ? 'I'hese monsters blazon'd what 

they were, 
According to the coarseness of their kind, 
For thus I hear; and known at last (my 

work) 
And full of cowardice and guilty shame, 
1 grant in her some sense of shame, she 

flies ; 
And I remain on whom to wreak your rage, 
1, that have lent my life to build up yours, 
1 that have wasted here health, vPealth, and 

lime, 
And talents, I — you know it — I will not 

boast : 
Dismiss me, and I prophesy your plan, 
Divorced from my experience, will be chaff 
For every gust of chance, and men will say 
We did not know the real light, but chased 
The wisp that flickers where no foot can 

tread." 

She ceased : the Princess answer'd coldly 

" Good : 
Your oath is broken : we dismiss you : go. 
For this lost lamb (she pointed to the child) 
Our mind is changed : we take it to our- 

self." 

Thereat the Lady stretch'd a vulture throat, 
And shot from crooked lips a haggard smile. 
"The plan was mine. I built the nest," 

she said, 
" To hatch the cuckoo. Rise I " and stoop'd 

to updrag 
Melissa : she, half on her mother propt, 
Halt'-drooping from her, turn'd her face, and 

cast 
A liquid look on Ida, full of prayer, 
Which melted Florian's fancy as she hung, 
A Niobean daughter, one arm out. 
Appealing to the bolts of Heaven ; andwhila 
We gazed upon her came a little stir 
About the doors, and on a sudden rush'd 
Among us, out of breath, as one pursued, 
A woman-post in flying raiment. Fear 
Stared in her eyes, and chalk'd her face, and 

wing'd 
Her transit to the throne, whereby she fell 



96 



THE PRINCESS: 



Delivering seal'd despatches which the Head 
Took half-amazed, and in her lion's mood 
Tore open, silent we with blind surmise 
Regarding, while she re.ul, till over bruw 
And clieek and bosom brake the wrathful 

bloom 

As of some fire against a stormy cloud. 
When the wild peasant rights himself, the 

rick 
Flames, and his anger reddens in the heav- 
ens ; 
For anger most it seem'd, while now her 

breast, 
Beaten with some great passion at her heart, 
Palpitated, her hand shook, and we heard 
In the dead hush the papers that she held 
Rustle : at once the lost lamb at her feet 
Sent out a bitter bleating for its dajn ; 
The plaintive cry jarr'd on her ire ; she 

crush'd 
The scrolls together, made a sudden turn 
As if to speak, but, utterance failing her, 
She whirl'd them on to me, as who should say 
"Read," and I read — two letters — one her 
sire's. 

" Fair daughter, when we sent the Prince 

your way 
We knew not your ungracious laws, which 

learnt. 
We, conscious of what temper you are built. 
Came all in haste to hinder wrong, but fell 
Into his father's hands, who has this night, 
You lying close upon his territory, 
Slipt round and in the dark invested you, 
And here he keeps me hostage for his son." 

The second was my father's, running thus: 
" You have our son : touch not a hair of his 

head : 
Render him up unscathed : give him your 

hand : 
Cleave to your contract : tho' indeed we hear 
You hold the woman is the better man ; 
A rampant heresy, such as if it spread 
Would make all women kick against their 

lords 
Thro' all the world, and which might well 

deserve 
That we this night should pluck your palace 

down ; 
And we will do it, unless you send us back 
Our son, on the instant, whole." 

So far I read ; 
And then stood up and spoke impetuously. 

" O not to pry and peer on your reserve, 
But led by golden wishes, and a hope 
The child of regal compact, did I break 
Your precinct ; not a scorner of your sex 
But venerator, zealous it should be 
All that it might be ; hear me, for I bear, 
Tho' man, yet human, whatsoe'eryour wrongs, 
From the flaxen curl to the gray luck a life 
J.ess mine than yours : my nurse would tell 

me of you ; 
I 1 abbled foi ;/c^ u, Js hables for the moon, 
V ijiue brigh'.ness ; when a boy, you stoop'd 

to "Tie 



From all high places, lived in all fair lights, 
Came in long breezes rapt from inmost south 
And blown to inmost north ; at eve and dawn 
With Ida, Ida, Ida, rang the woods ; 
'I'he leader wildswan in among the stars 
Would clang it, and lapt in wreaths of glow- 
worm light 
The mellow breaker murmur'd Ida. Now, 
Because I would have reach'd you, had you 

been 
Sphered up with Cassiopeia, or the enthroned 
Persephone in Hades, now at length. 
Those winteis of abeyance all worn out, 
A man I came to see you : but, indeed. 
Not in this frequence can I lend full tongue, 

noble Ha, to those thoughts that wait 
On you, their centre : let me say but this, 
'Ihat many a famous man and woman, town 
And landskip, have I heard of, after seen 
'Ihe dwarfs of prestige; tho' when known, 

there grew 
Another kind of beauty in detail 
Made them worth knowing ; but in you I 

found 
My boyisli dream involved and dazzled down 
And master'd, while that after-beauty makes 
Such head from act to act, from hour to hour, 
Within me, that except you slay me here, 
According to your bitter statute book, 

1 cannot cease to follow you, as they say 
'I'he seal does music ; who desire you more 
Than growing boys their manhood ; dying 

lips. 
With many thousand matters left to do, 
'I'he breath of lite ; O more than poor men 

wealth. 
Than sick men health, — yours, yours, not 

mine, — but half 
Without you, with you, whole ; and of those 

halves 
You worthiest ; and howe'er you block and 

bar 
Your heart with system out from mine, I hold 
That it becomes no man to nurse despair, 
But in the teeth of clench'd antagonisms 
To follow up the worthiest till he die : 
Yet that 1 came not all unauthorized 
Behold your father's letter." 

On one knee 
Kneeling, I gave it, which she caught, and 

d.ash'd 
Unopen'd at her feet : a tide of fierce 
Invective seem'd to wait behind her lips, 
As waits a river level with the dam 
Ready to burst and flood the worldwith foam; 
And so she would have spoken, but there rose 
A hubbub in the court of half the maids 
Gather'd together : from the illumined hall 
Long lanes of splendor slanted o'er a press 
Of snowv shoulders, thick as herded ewes. 
And rainbow robes, and gems and gem-like 

eyes. 
And gold and golden heads ; they to and fro 
Fluctuated, as'flowers in storm, some red, 

some pale. 
All open-mouth'd, all gazing to the light, 
Some crying there was an army in the land. 
And some that men were in the very walls. 



A MEDLEY. 



97 



And Bome they cared not ; till a clamor grew 
As of a new-world Babel, woman-built, 
And worse confounded : high above them stood 
The placid marble Muses, looking peace. 

Not peace she look'd, the Head : but ris- 
ing up ^ 
Robed in the long night of her deep hair, so 
To the open window moved, remaining there 
Fixt like a beacon-tower above the waves 
Of tempest, when the crimson-rolling eye 
Glares ruin, and the wild birds on the light 
Dash themselves dead. She stretch'd her 

arms and call'd 
Across the tumult and the tumult fell. 

" What fear ye brawlers ? am not I your 

Head? 
On me, me, me, the storm first breaks : / 

dare 
All these male thunderbolts : what is it ye 

fear? 
Peace I there are those to avenge us and 

they come: 
If not, — myself were like enough, O girls. 
To unfurl the maiden banner of our rights, 
And clad in iron burst the ranks of war, 
Or, falling, protomartyr of our cause. 
Die; yet I blame ye not so much for fear; 
Six thousand years of fear have m.ide ye that 
From which I would redeem ye : but for 

those 
That stir this hubbub — you and you — I 

know 
Your faces there in the crowd — to-morrow 

morn 
We hold a great convention : then shall they 
That love their voices more than duty, learn 
With whom they deal, dismiss'd in shame to 

live 
No wiser than their mothers, household stuff, 
Live chattels, mincers of each other's fame. 
Full of weak poison, turnspits for the clown. 
The drunkard's football, laughing-stocks of 

Time, 
Whose brains are in their hands and in their 

heels, 
But fit to flaunt, to dress, to dance, to thrum, 
To tramp, to scream, to burnish, and to scour, 
Forever slaves at home and fools abroad." 

She, ending, waved her hands : thereat 

the crowd 
Muttering dissolved : then with a smile, that 

look'd 
A stroke of cruel sunshine on the cliff. 
When all the glens are drown'd in azure 

gloom 
Of thunder-shower, she floated to us and said: 

"You have done well and like a gentleman, 
And like a prince : you have our thanks for all: 
And you look v.'ell too in your woman's dress : 
VfeW have you done and' like a gentleman. 
Yo'i saved our life : we owe you bitter thanks : 
Better have died and spilt our bones in the 

flood — 
Then men had said— but now — What hin- 
ders me 



To take such bloody vengeance on you 

both? — 
Yet since our father — Wasps in our good 

hive. 
You would-be quenchers of the light to be, 
Barbarians, grosser than your native bears — 

would I had his sceptre for one hour ! 
You that have daied to break our bound, and 

guh'd 
Our servants, wrong'd and lied and thwarted 

us — 
/ wed with thee ! / bound by precontract 
Your bride, your bondslave ! not tho' all the 

gold 
That veins the world were pack'd to make 

your crown, 
And every spoken tongue should lord you. 

Sir, 
Your falsehood and yourself are hateful to us: 

1 trample on your offers and on you : 
Begone : we will not look up n you more. 
Here, push them out at gates." 

In wrath she spake. 
Then those eight mighty daughters of Iha 

plough 
Bent their broad faces toward us and ad- 

dress'd 
Their motion : twice I sought to plead my 

cause. 
But on my shoulder hung their heavy hands, 
The weight of destiny : so from her face 
They push'd us, down the steps, and thro' 

the court, 
And with grim laughter thrust us out at gates. 

We cross'd the street and gain'd a petty 
mound 
Beyond it, whence we saw the lights and 

heard 
The voices murmuring. While I listen'd, 

came 
On a sudden the weird seizure and the doubt : 
I seem'd to move among a world of ghosts ; 
The Princess with her monstrous woman- 
guard. 
The jest and earnest working side by side. 
The cataract and the tumult and the' kings 
Were shadows: and the long fantastic night 
With all it.s doings had and had not been. 
And all things were and were not. 

This went by 
As strangely as it came, and on my spirits 
Settled a gentle cloud of melancholy ; 
Not long ; I shook it off; for spite of doubts 
And sudden ghostly shadowings [ was one 
To whom the touch of all mischance but catnj 
As night to him that sitting on a hill 
Sees the midsummer, midnight, Norway sun 
Set into sunrise : then we moved away. 

Thy voice is heard thro' rolling drums, 

That beat to battle where he stands; 
Thy face across his fancy comes. 

And gives the battle to his hands : 
A moment, while the trumpets blow, 

He .sees his brood about thy knee ; 
The next, like tire he meets the foe. 

And strikes him dead for thine and thee. 



98 



THE PRINCESS. 



So Liliasang : we thought her hnlf-possess'd, 
She struck such warbhiig fury thro' the words; 
And, after, feigning pique at what she call'd 
The raillery, or grotesque, or false sublime — 
Like one that wishes at a dance to change 
The music — clapt her hands and cried for 

war, 
Or some grand fight to kill and make an end : 
And he that next inherited the tale 
Half turning to the broken statue said, 
" Sir Ralph has got your colors : if I prove 
Your knight, and hglit your battle, what for 

me?" 
It chanced, her empty glove upon the tomb 
Lay by her like a model of her hand. 
She took it and she flung it. "Fight," she 

said, 
" And make us all we would be, great and 

good." 
He kniglitlike in his cap instead of casque, 
A cap of Tyrol borrow'd from the hail, 
Arranged the favor, and assumed the Prince. 



Now, scarce three paces measured from the 

mound, 
We stumbled on a stationarj' voice, 
And " Stand, wno goes ? " " Two from the 

palace," L 
" The second two : they wait," he said, 

" pass on ; 
His Highness wakes" : and one, that clash'd 

in arms. 
By glimmering lanes and walls of canvas, led 
Threading the soldier-city, till we heard 
The drowsy folds of our great ensign shake 
From blazon'd lions o'er the imperial tent 
Whispers of war. 

Entering, the sudden light 
Dazed me half-blind : I stood and seem'd to 

hear. 
As in a poplar grove when a light wind wakes 
A lisping of the innumerous leaf and dies. 
Each hissing in his neighbor's ear ; and then 
A strangled titter, out of which there brake 
On all sides, clamoring etiquette to death. 
Unmeasured mirth ; while now the two old 

kings 
Began to wag their baldness up and down. 
The fresh young captains flash'd their glit- 
tering teeth. 
The huge bush-bearded Barons heaved and 

blew. 
And slain with laughter roll'd the gilded 

Squire. 
At length my Sire, his rough cheek wet 

with tears. 
Panted from weary sides, " King, you are free! 
We did but keep you surety for our son. 
If this be he, — ■ or a draggled mawkin, thou, 
That tends her bristled gruuters in the 

sludge " : 
For I was drench'd with ooze, and torn with 

briers. 
More crumpled than a poppy from the sheath. 
And all one rag, disprinced from head to heel. 



Then some one sent beneath his .faulted pahn 
A whisper'd jest to some one near him 

" Look, 
He has been among his shadows." " Satan 

take 
The old women and their shadows ! (thus 

the King 
Roar'd) make yourself a man to fight with 

men. 
Go : Cyril told us all." 

As boys that slink 
From ferule and the trespass- chiding eye, 
Away we stole, and transient in a trice 
From what was left offaded woman-slough 
To sheathing splendors and the golden scale 
Of harness, issued in the sun, that now 
Leapt from the dewy shoulders of the Earth, 
And hit the northern hills. Here Cyril met us, 
A little shy at first, but by and by 
We twain, with mutual pardon ask'd and 

given 
For stroke and song, resolder'd peace, where- 
on 
Follow'd his tale. Amazed he fled away 
Thro' the dark land, and later in the night 
Had conic on Psyche weeping : " then we fell 
Into your father's hand, ar.d there she lies, 
But will not speak, nor stir." 

He show'd a tent 
A stone-shot off: we enter'd in, and there 
Among piled arms and rough accoutrements, 
Pitiful sight, wrapt in a soldier's cloak. 
Like some sweet sculpture draped from head 

to foot. 
And push'd by rude hands from its pedestal. 
All her fair length upon the ground she lay : 
And at her head a follower of the camp, 
A charr'd and wrinkled piece of womanhood. 
Sat watching like a watcher by the dead. 

Then Florian knelt, and "Come," he 

whisper'd to her, 
" Lift up your head, sweet sister : lie not thus. 
What have you done but right? you could 

not slay 
Me, nor your prince : look up : be comforted : 
Sweet is it to have done the thing one ought. 
When fall'n in darker ways." And likewise I : 
" Be comforted : have 1 not lost her too. 
In whose least act abides the nameless charm 
That none has else for me?" She heard, 

she moved, 
She moan'd, a folded voice : and up she sat. 
And raised the cloak from brows as pale and 

smooth 
As those that mourn half-shrouded ove» 

death 
In deathless marble. " Her," she said, " my 

friend — 
Parted from her — betray'd her cause and 

mine — 
Where shall I breathe ? why kept ye not your 

faith ? 
O base and bad ! what comfort ? none for 

me ! " 
To whom remorseful Cyril, " Yet I pray 
Take comfort : live, dear lady, for your child ! " 
At which she lifted up her voice and cried. 



A MEDLEY. 



99 



" Ah me, my babe, my blos-iom, ah my 

child. 
My one sweet child, whom I shall see no 

more ! 
For now will cruel Ida keep her back ; 
And either she will die from want olcire, 
Or sicken with ill usage, when they s.iy 
The child is hers — for every little fault, 
The child is hers ; and they will beat my girl 
Remembering her mother : O my flower ! 
Or they will take her, they will make her hard, 
And she will pass me by in after-life 
With some cold reverence worse than were 

she dead. 
Ill mother that I was to leave her there, 
'J'o lag behind, scared by the cry ihey made. 
The horror of tlie shame among them all : 
But I will go and sit beside the doors. 
And make a wild petition night and day, 
Until they hate to hear me like a wind 
Wailing forever, till they open to me, 
And lay my little blossom at my feet. 
My babe, my sweet Agla'ia, iny one child : 
And I will take her up and go my way, 
And satisfy my sovil with kissing her : 
Ah ! what might that man not deserve of me. 
Who gave me back my child?" " Be coni- 

"torted," 
Said Cyril, " you shall have it," but again 
She veil'd her brows, and prone she sank, 

and so 
Like tender things that being caught feign 

death, 
•Spoke not, nor stirr'd. 

By this a murmur ran 
Thro' all the camp and inward raced the 

scouts 
With rumor of Prince Arac hard at hand. 
We left her by the woman, and without 
Found the gray kings at parle : and " Look 

you," cried 
My father, " that our compact be fuIfiU'd : 
You have spoilt this child ; she laughs at you 

and man : 
She wrongs herself, her sex, and me, and 

him : 
But red-faced war has rods of steel and Are ; 
She yields, or war." 

Then Gama turn'd to me : 
" We fear, indeed, you spent a stormy time 
With our strange girl : and yet they say that 

still 
You love her. Give us, then, your mind at 

large : 
How say you, war or not? " 

" Not war, if possible, 
O king," I said, " lest from the abuse of war. 
The desecrated shrine, the trampled year. 
The smouldering homestead, and the house- 
hold flower 
Torn from the lintel — all the common 

wrong -^ 
A smoke go up thro' which I loom to her 
Three times a monster : now she lightens 

scorn 
At him that mars her plan, but then would 

hate 
(And every voice she talk'd with ratify it, 



And every face she look'd on justify it) 
The general foe. More soluble is this knot, 
Bv gentleness than war. I want her love. 
What were I nigher this a'tho' we dash'd 
Your cities into shards with catapults, 
.She would not love ; — or brought herchain'd, 

a slave, 
The lifting of whose eyelash is my lord. 
Not ever would she love ; but brooding turn 
The book of scorn till all my little chance 
Were caught within the record of her wrongs, 
And crush'd to death : and rather. Sire, than 

this 
I would the old god of war himselfwere dead, 
Forgotten, rusting on his iron hills. 
Rotting on some wild shore with ribs of wreck. 
Or like an old-world mammoth bulk'd in ice, 
Not to be molten out." 

And roughly spake 
My father, "Tut, you know them not, the 

girls. 
Boy, when I hear you prate I almost think 
That idiot legend credible. Look you. Sir ! 
Man is the hunter ; woman is his game : 
'["he sleek and shining creatures of the chase. 
We hunt them for the beauty of their skins ; 
Thev love us for it, and we ride them down. 
Wheedling and siding with them ! Out ! for 

shame ! 
Boy, there's no rose that's half so dear to them 
As he that does the thing they dare not do. 
Breathing and sounding beauteous battle, 

comes 
With the air of the trumpet round him, and 

leaps in 
Among the women, snares them by the score 
Flatter'd and fluster'd, wins, though dash'd 

with death 
He reddens what he kisses : thus I won 
Your mother, a good mother, a good wife. 
Worth winning ; but this firebrand — gentle- 
ness 
To such as her ! if Cyril spake her true. 
To catch a dragon in a cherry ret. 
To trip a tigress with a gossamer, 
Were wisdom to it." 

"Yea, but Sire," I cried, 
" Wild natures need wise curbs. The soldier ? 

No: 
What dares not Ida do that she should prize 
The soldier? I beheld her, when she rose 
The yester-night, and storming in extremes 
Stood for her cause, and flung defiance down 
Gagelike to man, and had not shunn'd the 

death. 
No, not the soldier's : yet T hold her, king, 
I'rue woman : but you clash them all in one. 
That have as many differences as we. 
The violet varies from the lily as far 
As oak from elm : one loves the soldier, one 
The silken priest of peace, one this, one that, 
And some unworthily ; their sinless faith, 
A maiden moon that sparkles on a sty. 
Glorifying clown and satyr ; whence they 

need 
More breadth of culture : is not Ida right? 
They worth it ? truer to the law within ? 
Severer in the logic of a life ? 



THE PRINCESS: 



Twice as magnetic to sweet influences 

Of earth and heaven ? and she of whom you 

speak, 
My mother, looks as whole as some serene 
Creation minted in the golden moods 
Of sovereign artists ; not a thought, a touch, 
But pure as lines of green that streak the 

white 
Of the first snowdrop's inner leaves ; I say, 
Not like the piebald miscellany, man, 
Bursts of great heart and slips in sensual 

mire, 
But whole and one: and take them all-in-all. 
Were we ourselves but half as good, as kind. 
As truthful, much that Ida claims as right 
Had ne'er been mooted, but as frankly theirs 
As dues of NatureT To our point : not war : 
Lest I lose all." 

" Nay, nay, you spake but sense," 
Said Gama. " We remember love ourselves 
In our sweet youth ; we did not rate him then 
This red-hot iron to be shaped witli blows. 
You talk almost like Ida : she can talk ; 
And there is something in it as you say : 
But you talk kindlier : we esteem you for it. — 
He seems a gracious and a gallant Prince, 
I would he had our daughter : for the rest, 
Our own detention, why the causes weigh'd. 
Fatherly fear- — you used us courteously — 
We would do much to gratify your Prince — 
We pardon it ; and for your ingress here 
Upon the skirt and fringe of our fair land. 
You did but come as goblins in the night, 
Nor in the furrow broke the ploughman's 

head. 
Nor burnt the grange, norbuss'd the milking- 

maid. 
Nor robb'd the farmer of his bowl of cream : 
But let your Prince (our royal word upon it, 
He comes back safe) ride with us to our lines, 
And speak with Arac : Arac's word is thrice 
As ours with Ida : something may be done — 
I know not what — and ours shall see us 

friends. 
Yon, likewise, our late guests, if so you will. 
Follow us : who knows ? we four may build 

some plan 
Foursquare to opposition." 

Here he reach'd 
White hands of farewell to my sire, who 

growl'd 
An answer which, half-mufHed in his beard. 
Let so much out as gave us leave to go. 

Then rode we with the old king across the 

lawns 
Beneath huge trees, a thousand rings of 

Spring- 
In every bole, a song on everv spray 
Of birds that piped their Valentines, and 

woke 
Desire in me to infuse my tale of love 
In the old king's ears, who promised help, 

and oo/.ed 
All o'er with honey'd answer as we rode ; 
And blossom-fragrant slipt the heavy dews 
Gather'd by night and peace, with each light 

air 



On our mail'd heads : but other thoughts than 

Peace 
Burnt in us, when we saw the embattled 

squares. 
And squadrons of the Prince, trampling the 

flowers 
With clamor : for among them rose a cry 
As if to greet the king : they made a halt ; 
The horses yell'd ; they clash'd their arms ; 

the drum 
Beat ; merrily-blowing shrill'd the martial 

_ fife; 
And in the blast and bray of the long horn 
And serpent-throated bugle, undulated 
The banner : anon to meet us lightly pranced 
Three captains out ; nor ever had I seen 
Such thews of men : the midmost and the 

highest 
Was Arac : all about his motion clung 
The shadow of his sister, as the beam 
Of the East, that play'd upon them, made 

them glance 
I,ike those three stars of the airy Giant's 

zone. 
That glitter burnish'd by the frosty dark ; 
And as the fiery Sirius alters hue, 
And bickers into red and emerald, shone 
Their morions, wash'd with morning, as they 

came. 

And I that prated peace, when first I 

heard 
War-music, felt the blind wildbeast of force, 
Whose home is in the sinews of a man. 
Stir in me as to strike : then took the kiu^ 
His three broad sons ; with now a wanderng 

hand 
And now a pointed finger, told them all : 
A connnon light of smiles at our disguise 
Broke from their hps, and, ere the windy jest 
Had labor'd down within his ample lungs. 
The genial giant, Arac, roH'd himself 
Thrice in tlie saddle, then burst out in words. 

" Our land invaded, 'sdeath ! and he him- 
self 
Your captive, yet my father wills not war: 
Aud, 'sdeath ! myself, what care I, war or 

no? 
But then this question of your troth remains : 
And there's a downright honest meaning in 

her ; 
She flies too high, she flies too high ! and yet 
She ask'd but space and fairplay for her 

scheme : 
She prest and prest it on ine — I myself. 
What know I of these things? but, life and 

soul ! 
I thought her half-right talkingof her wrongs : 
I say she flies too high, 'sdeath ! what of 

that? 
I take her for the flower of womankind, 
And so T often told her, right or wrong, 
And, Prince, she can be sweet to those she 

loves. 
And, right or wrong, T care not : this is all, 
I stand upon her side: she made me swear 

it — 



A MEDLEY. 



Sdeath, — and with solemn rites by candle- 
light — 
Swear by St. something — I forget her 

name — 
Her that talk'd down the fifty wisest men : 
She was a princess too ; and so 1 swore. 
Come, this is all ; she will not : waive your 

claim, 
If not, the foughten field, what else, at once 
Decides it, 'sdeath ! against my father's 
will." 

T lagg'd in answer loath to render up 
My precontract, and lo.ith by brainless war 
To cleave the rit't of difference deeper yet ; 
Till one of those two brothers, half aside 
And fingering at the hair about his lip. 
To prick us on to combat " Like to like ! 
Tne woman's garment hid the woman's 

heart." 
A taunt that clench'd his purpose like a blow ! 
For fiery-short was Cyril's counter scoff. 
And sharp lanswer'd, touch'd upon the point 
Where idle boys are cowards to their shame, 
" Decide it here : why not ? we are three to 

three." 

Then spake the third, " But three to three ? 
no more ? 
No more, and in our noble sister's cause? 
More, more, for honor: every captain w.aits 
Hungry for honor, angry for his king. 
More, more, some fifty on a side, that each 
May breathe himself, and quick ! by over- 
throw 
Of these or those, the question settled die." 

"Yea," answer'd I, "for this wild wreath 

of air, 
This flake of rainbow flying on the highest 
Foam of men's deeds — this honor, if ye will. 
It needs must be for honor if at all : 
Since, what decision? if we fail, we fail, 
And if we win, we fail : she would not keep 
Her compact." " 'Sdeath 1 but wa will send 

to her," 
Said Arac, " worthy reasons why she should 
Bide by this issue: let our mi.ssive thro'. 
And you shall have her answer by the word." 

" Boys ! " shriek'd the old king, but vainlier 
than a hen 
To her fal.se d.aughters in the pool : for none 
Regarded ; neither seem'd there more to say : 
Back rode we to my father's camp, and found 
He thrice had .sent a herald to the gates. 
To learn if Ida yet would cede our claim. 
Or by denial flush her babbling wells 
With her own people's lite : three times he 

went : 
The first, he blew and blew, but none ap- 
peared : 
He batter'd at the doors ; none came : the 

next, 
An awful voice within had warn'd him 

thence : 
I'he third, and those eight daughters of the 
plough 



Came sallying thro' the gates, and caught his 

hair, 
And so belabor'd him on rib and cheek 
They made him wild : not less one glance he 

caught 
Thro' open doors of Ida station'd there 
Unshaken, clinging to her purpose, firm 
Tho' compass'd by two armies and the noise 
Of arms ; and standing like a stately Pine 
Set in a cataract on an island-crag. 
When storm is on the heights, and right and 

left 
Suck'd from the dark heart of the long hills 

roil 
The torrents, dash'd to the vale : and yet her 

wiU^ 
Bred will in me to overcome it or fall. 

But when I told the king that I was pledged 
To fight in tourney for my bride, he clash'd 
His iron palms together with a cry ; 
Himself would tilt it out among the lads : 
But overborne by all his bearded lords 
With reasons drawn from age and state, per- 
force 
He yielded, wroth and red, with fierce de- 
mur : 
And many a bold knight started up in heat, 
And sware to combat for my claim till death. 

All on this side the palace ran the field 
Flat to the garden wall : and likewise here, 
Above the garden's glowing blossom-belts, 
A column'd entry shone and marble stairs. 
And great bronze valves, emboss'd with 

Tomyris 
.A.nd what she did to Cyrus after fight, 
But now fast barr'd : so here upon the flat 
All that long morn the lists were hammer'd 

up, 
And all that morn the heralds to and fro, 
With message and defiance, went and came ; 
Last, Ida's answer, in a royal hand, 
But shaken here and there, and rolling words 
Oration-like. I kiss'd it and I read. 

" O brother, you have known the pangs we 

felt. 
What heats of indignation when we heard 
Of those that iron-cramp'd their women's 

feet ; 
Of lands in which at the altar the poor bride 
Gives her harsh groom for bridal-gift a 

scourge ; 
Of living hearts that crack within the fire 
Where smoulder their dead despots ; and of 

those, — 
Mother.s, — that, all prophetic pity, fling 
Their pretty maids in the running flood, and 

swoops 
The vulture, beak and talon, at the heart 
Made for all noble motion : and I saw 
That equal baseness lived in sleeker times 
With smoother men : the old leaven leaven'd 

all : • 
Millions of throats would bawl for civil rights, 
No woman named : therefore I set my face 
-Against all men, and lived but for mine own. 
Far off from men I built a fold for them : 



id2 



THE PRINCESS: 



I stored it full of rich memorial : 
I fenced it round with gallant institutes, 
And biting laws to scare the beasts of prey, 
And prosper'd ; till a rout of saucy boys 
Brake on us at our books, and marr'd our 

peace, 
Mask'd like our maids, blustering I know 

not what 
Of insolence and love, some pretext held 
Of baby troth, invalid, since my will 
Seal'd not the bond — the striplings I — for 

their sport ! — 
I tamed my leopards : shall I not tame these? 
Or you ? or I ? for since you think me louch'd 
In honor — what, I would not aught of 

false — 
Is not our cause pure? and whereas I know 
Your prowess, Arac, and what mother's 

blood 
You draw from, fight ; you failing, I abide 
What end soever : fail you will not. Still 
Take not his life : he risk'd it for my own ; 
His mother lives : yet whatso'er you do. 
Fight and fight well ; strike and strike home. 

O dear 
r.ruthers, the woman's Angel guards you, 

you 
'I'he sole men to be mingled with our cause, 
'I he sole men we shall prize in the after-time. 
Your very armor hallow'd, and your statues 
Kear'd, sung to, when this gad-fly brush'd 

aside, 
We plant a solid foot into the Time, 
And mould a generation strong to move 
With claim on claim from right to right, till 

she 
Whose name is yoked with children's, know 

herself ; 
And Knowledge in our own land make her 

iree, 
I And, ever following those two crowned 
j twins, 

I Commerce and conquest, shower the fiery 
' grain 

Of freedom broadcast over all that orbs 
Between the Northern and the Southern 
^ morn." 

iThen came a postscript dash'd across the 
rest. 
" See that there be no traitors in your camp : 
We seem a nest of traitors — none to trust : 
Since our arms fail'd — this Egypt plague of 

men ! 
Almost our maids were better at their homes, 
Than thus man-girdled here : indeed 1 think 
( )ur chiefest comfort is the little child 
( )f one unworthy mother ; which she left : 
She shall not have it back : the child shall 

grow 
To prize the authentic mother of her mind. 
I took it for an hour in mine own bed 
This morning : there the tender orphan 
hands 
. Felt at my heart, and seeni'd to cliarm from 
thence 

The wrath I nursed against the world : fare- 
well." 



I ceased ; he said : " Stubborn, but she 

may sit 
Upon a king's right hand in thunder-storms. 
And breed uiJ warriors ! See now, tho' 

yourself 
Be dazzled by the wildfire Love to sloughs 
That swallow common sense, the spindling 

king. 
This Gama swamp'd in lazy tolerance. 
When the man wants weight, the woman 

takes it up. 
And topples down the scales ; but this is fixt 
As are the roots of earth and base of all ; 
Man for the field and woman for the hearth ; 
Man for the sword and for the needle she : 
Man with the head and woman with the 

heart : 
Man to command and woman to obey ; 
All else confusion. Look you ! the gray 

mare 
Is ill to live with, when her whinny shrills 
From tile to scullery, and her small good- 
man 
Shrinks in his arm-chair while the fires of 

Hell 
Mix with his hearth : but you — she's yet a 

colt — 
Take, break her : strongly groom'd and 

straitly curb'd 
She might not rank with those detestable 
That let the bantling scald at home, and 

brawl 
Their rights or wrongs like potherbs in the 

street. 
They say she 's comely ; there 's the fairer 

chance : 
/like her none the less for rating at her I 
Besides, the woman wed is not as we. 
But suffers change of frame. A lusty brace 
(Jf twins may weed her of her folly. Boy, 
The bearing and the training of a child 
Is woman's wisdom." 

Thus the hard old king : 
I took my leave, for it was nearly noon : 
I viored upon her letter which I held, 
And on the little clause " take not his life " : 
I mused on that wild morning in the woods, 
And on the " Follow, follow, thou shalt 

win " : 
I thought on all the wrathful king had said, 
And how the strange betrothment was to 

end : 
Then I remember'd that burnt sorcerer's 

curse 
That one should fight with shadows and 

should fall ; 
And like a flash the weird affection came : 
King, camp and college turn'd to hollow 

shows ; 
I seem'd to move in old memorial tilts. 
And doing battle with forgotten ghosts. 
To dream myself the shadow of a dream : 
And ere I woke it was the point of noon, 
The lists were ready. Kmpanoplied and 

plumed 
We enter'd in, and waited, fifty there 
Opposed to fifty, till the trumpet blared 
At the barrier like a wild horn in a land 







" Like summer tempest came her tears — 
' Sweet my child, I live for thee.'" 



A MEDLEV. 



103 



?f echoes, and a moment, and once more 
he irunipet, and again : at which the storm 
Of galloping hoofs bare on the ridge of spears 
And riders front to front, until they closed 
In conflict with the crash of shivernig points. 
And thunder. Yet it seem'd a dream ; I 

dream'd 
Of fighting. On his haunches rose the steed, 
And into fiery sphnters leapt the lance. 
And out of stricken helmets sprang the fire. 
A noble dream ! what was it else I saw.> 
Part sat like rocks ; partreel'd but kept their 

seats ; 
Part roll'd on the earth and rose agam and 

drew : 
Part stumbled mixt with floundering horses. 

Down 
From those two bulks at Arac's side, and 

down 
From Arac's arm, as froin a giant's flail, 
The large blows rain'd, as here and every- 
where 
He rode the mellay, lord of the ringing lists. 
And all the plain — brand, mace, and shaft, 

and shield — 
Shock'd, like an iron-clanging anvi! bang'd 
With hammers ; till 1 thought, can this be he 
From G.ima's dwarfish loins? if this be so. 
The mother makes us most — and in my 

dream 
I glanced aside, and saw the palace-front 
Alive with fluttering scarfs and ladies' eyes. 
And highest, among the statues, statue-like. 
Between acymbal'd Miriam and a Jael, 
With Psyche's babe, was Ida watching us, 
A single band of gold about her hair. 
Like a Saint's glory up in heaven : but she 
No saint — ine.xorable — ■ no tenderness — 
Too hard, too cruel : yet she sees me fight, 
Yea, let her see me fall ! with that I drave 
Among the thickest and bore down a Prince, 
And Cyril, one. Yea, let me make my dream 
All that I would. But that large-moulded 

man, 
His visage all agrin as at a wake. 
Made at me thro' the press, and, staggering 

back 
With stroke on stroke the horse and horse- 
man came 
As comes a pillar of electric cloud, 
Flaying the roofs and sucking np the drains. 
And shadowing down the champaign till it 

strikes 
On a wood, and takes, and breaks, and 

cracks, and splits. 
And twists the gram with such a roar that 

Earth 
Reels, and the herdsmen cry ; for everything 
Gave way before him : only Florian, he 
That loved me closer than his own right eye. 
Thrust in between ; but Arac rode him down : 
And Cyril seeing it, push'd against the 

Prince, 
W ith I'syche's color round his helmet, tough, 
Strong, supple, sinew-corded, apt at arms ; 
But tougher, heavier, stronger, he that smote 
And threw him : last 1 spurr'd ; I felt my 



Stretch with fierce heat ; a moment hand to 

hand, 
And sword to sword, and horse to horse wo 

hung. 
Till I struck out and shouted ; the blade 

glanced ; 
I did but shear a feather, and dream and 

truth 
Flow'd from me ; darkness closed me ; and 

I fell. 

Home they brought her warrior dead : 
She nor swoon'd, nor utter'd cry : 

All her maid^is, watching, said, 
" She muix. weep or she will die." 

Then they praised him, soft and low, 
Call'd him worthy to be loved, 

Truest friend and noblest foe ; 
Yet she neither spoke nor moved. 

Stole a maiden from her place, 

Lightly to the warrior stept. 
Took the face-cloth from the face ; . 

Yet she neither moved nor wept. 

Rose a nurse of ninety years, 
Set his child upon her knee — 

Like summer tempest came her tears — 
" Sweet my chi.d, 1 live for thee." 



VL 

My dream had never died or lived again. 
As in some mystic middle state I lay; 
Seeing I saw not, hearing not I heard : 
Tho', if I saw not, yet they told me all 
So often that I speak as having seen. 

For so it seem'd, or so they said to me. 
That all things grew more tragic and more 

strange ; 
That when our side was vanquish'd and my 

cause 
Forever lost, there went up a great cry, 
The Prince is slain. My father heard and 

ran 
In on the lists, and there unlaced my casque 
And grovell'd on my body, and after him 
Came Psyche, sorrowing for Aglaia. 

But higli upon the palace Ida stood 
With Psyche's babe in arm : there on the 

niofs 
Like that great dame of Lapidoth she sang. 

" Our enemies have fall'n, have fall'n : the 

seed 
The little seed they laugh'd at in the dark. 
Has risen and cleft the soil, and grown a 

bulk 
Of spanless girth, that lays on every side 
A thousand arms and rushes to the Sun. 

"Our enemies have fall'n, have fall'n: 
they came : 
The leaves were wet with women's tears: 
they heard 



I04 



THE PRINCESS: 



A noise of songs they would not understand : 
They mark'd it with the red cross to the iall, 
And would have sirown it, and are fall'n 
themselves. 

" Our enemies have fall'n, have fall'n : 

they came, 
The woodmen with their axes : lo the tree ! 
But we will make it fagots for the hearth. 
And shape it plank and beam for roof and 

floor, 
And boats and bridges for the use of men. 

" Our enemies have fall'n, have fall'n : 

they struck ; 
With their own blows they hurt themselves, 

nor knew 
There dwelt an iron nature in the grain : 
The glittering axe was broken in their arms, 
Their arms were shatter'd to the shoulder 

blade. 

"Our enemies have fall'n, but this shall 

grow 
A night of Summer from the heat, a breadth 
Of Autumn, dropping fruits of power ; and 

roll'd 
With music in the growing breeze of Time, 
The tops shall strike from star to star, the 

fangs 
Shall move the stony bases of the world. 

" And now, O maids, behold our sanctu- 
ary 
Is violate, our laws broken : fear we not 
To break them more in their behoof, whose 

arms 
Champiou'd our cause and won it with a day 
Blancli'd in our annals, and perpetual feast. 
When dames and heroines of the golden 

vear 
Shall strip a hundred hollows bare of Spring, 
To rain an April of ovation round 
Their statues, borne aloft, the three : but 

come. 
We will be liberal, since our rights are won. 
Let them not lie in the tents with coarse 

mankind, 
111 nurses ; but descend, and proffer these 
The brethren of our blood and cause, that 

there 
Lie bruised and maim'd, the tender minis- 
tries 
Of female hands and hospitality." 

She spoke, and with the babe yet in her 

arms. 
Descending, burst the great bronze valves, 

and led 
A hundred maids in train across the Park. 
Some cowl'd, and some bare-headed, on they 

came, 
Their feet in flowers, her loveliest : by them 

went 
The enamor'd air sighing, and on their curls 
From the high tree the blossom wavering 

fell, 
And over them the tremulous isles of light, 



SHded, they moving under shade : but 

Blanche 
At distance t'ollow'd : so they came : anon 
Thro' open field into the lists they wound 
'I'imorously ; and as the leader of the herd 
That holds a stately fretwork to the Sun 
And follow'd up by a hundred airy does 
Steps vi'ith a tender foot, light as on air. 
The lovely, lordly creature floated on 
To where her wounded brethren lay ; tliev 

stay'd ; 
Knelt on one knee, — the child on one, — • 

and prest 
Their hands, and call'd them dear deliverers, 
And happy warriors and immortal names, 
And said, " You shall not lie in the tents but 

here. 
And nursed by those for whom you fought, 

and served 
With female hands and hospital it}'." 

Then, whether moved by this, or was it 

chance. 
She past my way. Up started from my side 
The old lion, glaring with his w helpless eye, 
Silent ; but when she saw me lying stark, 
Dishelm'd and mute, and niotionlessly pale. 
Cold ev'n to her, she sigh'd ; and when she 

saw 
The haggard father's face and reverend beard 
Of grisly twine, all dabbled with the blood 
Of his own son, shudder'd, a twitch of pain 
Tortured her mouth, and o'er her forehead 

past 
A shadow, and her hue changed, and she 

said : 
" He saved my life : my brother slew him 

for it." 
No more : at which the king in bitter scorn 
Drew from my neck the painting and the 

tress. 
And held them up: she .saw them, and a day 
Rose from the distance on her niemorj'. 
When the good Queen, her mother, shore 

the tress 
With kisses, ere the days of Lady Blanche ; 
And then once more she look'd at my pale 

face : 
Till understanding all the foolish work 
Of Fancy, and the bitter close of all. 
Her iron will was broken in her mind ; 
Her noble heart was molten in her breast ; 
She bow'd, she set the child on the earth ; 

she laid 
A feeling finger on my brows, and presently 
"O Sire." she said, "he lives: he is not 

dead : 
( ) let me have him with my brethren here 
In our own palace : we will tend on him 
Like one of these : if so, by any means. 
To lighten this great clog of thanks, that 

make 
Our progress filter to the woman's goal." 

She said : but at the happy word " he 
lives," 
My father stoop'd, re-father'd o'er my 
wounds. 



A MEDLEY. 



So those two foes above my fallen life, 
With brow to brow like night and evening 

mixt 
Their dark and gray, while Psyche ever stole 
A little nearer, till the babe that by us, 
Half-lapt in glowing gauze and golden brede, 
Lay like a new-fall'n meteor on the grass, 
TJncared for, spied its mother and began 
A blind and babbling laughter, and to dance 
Its body, and reach its falling innocent arms 
And lazy lingering fingers. She the appeal 
Brook'd not, but clamoring out " Mine — 

mine — not yours. 
It is not yours, but mine : give me the child," 
Ceased all on tremble : piteous was the cry : 
So stood the unliappy mother open-mouth'd. 
And turn'd each face her way : wan was her 

cheek 
With hollow watch, her blooming mantle torn, 
Red grief and mother's hunger in her eye. 
And down dead-heavy sank her curls, and 

half 
The sacred mother's bosom, panting, burst 
The laces toward her babe ; but she nor cared 
Nor knew it, clamoring on, till Ida heard, 
Look'd up, and rising slowly from me, stood 
Erect and silent, striking with her glance 
The mother, me, the child ; but he that lay 
Beside us, Cyril, batter'd as he was, 
Trail'd himself up on one knee : then he 

drew 
Her robe to meet his lips, and down she 

look'd 
At the arm'd man sideways, pitying, as it 

seem'd, 
Or self-involved; but when she learnt his 

face. 
Remembering his ill-omen'd song, arose 
Once more thro' all her height, and o'er him 

grew 
Tall as a figure lengthen'd on the sand 
When the tide ebbs in sunshine, and he said : 

" O fair and strong and terrible ( Lioness 
That with your long locks play the Lion's 

mane ! 
But Love and Nature, these are two more 

terrible 
And stronger. See, your foot is on our necks. 
We vanquish'd, you the Victor of your will.' 
What would you more? give Iter the child ! 

remain 
Orb'd in your isolation : he is dead. 
Or all as dead : henceforth we let you be : 
Win you the hearts of women ; and beware 
Lest, where you seek the common love of 

these. 
The common hate with the revolving wheel 
Should drag you down, and some great 

Nemesis 
Break from a darken'd future, crowu'd with 

fire. 
And tread you out forever : but howsoe'er 
Fix'd in yourself, never in your own arms 
To hold your own, deny not hers to her. 
Give her the child ! O if, I sav. von keep 
One pulse that beats true woman, if you loved 
The breast that fed or arm that dandled you, 



Or own one part of sense not flint to prayer, 
Give her tlie child ! or if you scorn to lay it. 
Yourself, in hands so lately claspt with yours. 
Or speak to her, your dearest, her one fault ' 
The tenderness, not yours, that could not kill, 
Give me it ; / will give it her." 

He said : 
At first her eye with slow dilation roll'd 
Dry flame, she listening: after sank and sank 
And, into mournful twilight mellowing, dwelt 
Full on the child ; she took it : " Pretty bud ! 
Lily of the vale ! half-open'd bell of the 

woods ! 
Sole comfort ofViy dark hour, when a world 
Of traitorous friend and broken system made 
No purple in the distance, mystery. 
Pledge of a love not to be mine, farewell; 
These men are hard upon us as of old. 
We two must part : and yet how fain was I 
To dream thy cause embraced in mine, to 

think 
I might be something to thee, when I felt 
Thy helpless vyarmth about my barren breast 
In the dead prime : but may thy mother prove 
As true to thee as false, false, false to me 1 
And, if thou needs must bear the yoke, I 

wish it 
Gentle as freedom" — here she kissed it: 

then — 

"All good go with thee ! take it, Sir," and 

so 
Laid the soft babe in his hard-mailed hands. 
Who turn'd half-round to Psyche as she 

sprang 
To meet it, with an eye that swum in thanks ; 
Then felt it sound and whole from head to 

foot. 
And hugg'd and never hugg'd it close enough. 
And in her hunger mouth'd and mumbled it, 
And hid her bosom with it ; after that 
Put on more calm and added suppliautly : 

" We two were friends : I go to mine own 

land 
Forever : find some other : as for me 
I scarce am fit for your great plans : yet 

speak to me, 
Say one soft word and let me part forgiven." 

But Ida spoke not, rapt upon the child. 
Then Arac. "Ida — 'sdeath I you blame 

the man ; 
You wrong yourselves — the woman is so hard 
Upon the woman. Come, a grace to me ! 
I am your warrior ; I and mine have fought 
Your battle : kiss her ; take her hand, she 

weeps : 
'Sdeath ! I would sooner fight thrice o'er 

than see it." 

But Ida spoke not, gazing on the ground. 
And reddening in the furrows of his chin, 
And moved beyond his custom, Gama said : 

" I 've heard that there is iron in the blood. 
And r believe it. Not one word ? not one ? 
Whence drew you this steel temper? not 
from me, 



THE PRINCESS: 



Not from your mother now a saint with saints. 
She said you had a heart — I heard her say 

it — 
'Our Ida has a heart' — just ere she died — 
' But see that some one with authority 
Be near her still,' and I — I sought for one — 
All people said she had authority — 
The Lady Blanche : much profit I Not one 

word ; 
No ! tho' your father sues : see how you stand 
Stiff as Lot's wife, and all the good knights 

maim'd, 
I trust that there is no one hurt to death, 
For your wild whim : and was it then for this, 
Was it for this we gave our palace up. 
Where v.e withdrew from summer heats and 

state. 
And had our wine and chess beneath the 

planes. 
And many a pleasant hour with her that's 

gone, 
Ere you were born to vex us? Is it kind ? 
Speak to her I say : is this not she of whom, 
When first she came, all flush'd you said to 

me 
Now had you got a friend of your own age, 
Now could you share your thought ; now 

should men see 
Two women faster welded in one love 
Than pairs of wedlock ; she you walk'd with, 

she 
You talk'd with, whole nights long, up in the 

tower. 
Of sine and arc, spheroid and azimuth. 
And right ascension. Heaven knows what ; 

and now 
A word, but one, one little kindly word. 
Not one to spare her : out upon you, flint ! 
You love nor her, nor me, nor any ; nay. 
You shame your mother's judgment too. 

Not one ? 
You will not? well — ^no heart have you, or 

such 
As fancies like the vermin in a nut 
Have fretted all to dust and bitterness." 
So said the small king moved beyond his 

wont. 

But Ida stood nor spoke, drain'd of her 

force 
By many a varying influence and so long. 
Down thro' her limbs a drooping languor 

wept : 
Her head a little bent ; and on her mouth 
A doubtful smile dwelt like a clouded moon 
In a still water : then brake out my sire 
Lifting his grim head from my wounds. "O 

you, 
Woman, whom we thought woman even now, 
And were halffool'd to let you tend our son. 
Because he might have wish'd it — but we 

see 
Tlie accomplice of your madness unforgiven, 
And think that you might mix his draught 

with death, 
When your skies change again : the rougher 

hand 
Is safer : on to the tents : take up the Prince." 



He rose, and while each ear was prick'd to 
attend 
A tempest, thro' the cloud that dimm'd her 

broke 
A genial warmth and light once more, and 

shone 
Thro' glittering drops on her sad friend. 

" Come hither, 

Psyche," she cried out, " embrace me, 

come, 
Quick while I melt ; make reconcilement sure 
With one that cannot keep her mind an hour : 
Come to the hollow heart they slander so ! 
Kiss and befriends, like children being chid 1 
/ seem no more : / want forgiveness too : 

1 should have had to do with none but maids, 
That have no links with men. Ah false but 

dear. 
Dear traitor, too much loved, why? — why? 

Yet see. 
Before these kings we embrace you yet onca 

more 
With all forgiveness, all oblivion, 
And trust, not love, you less. 

And now, O Sire, 
Grant me your son, to nurse, to wait upon 

him, 
Like mine own brother. Formy debt to him. 
This nightmare weight of gratitude, I know 

it ; 
Taunt me no more : yourself and yours shall 

have 
Free adit ; we will scatter all our maids 
Till happier times each to her proper hearth : 
What use to keep them here now? grant my 

prayer. 
Help, father, brother, help; speak to the king: 
Thaw this male nature to some touch of that 
Which kills me with myself, and drags me 

dov\n 
From my fixt height to mob me up with all 
The soft and milky rabble of womankind, 
Poor weakling ev'n as they are." 

Passionate tears 
Follow'd : the king replied not : Cyril said : 
"Your brother. Lady, — Florian, — ask for. 

him 
Of your great head — for he is wounded too — 
I'hat you may tend upon him with the 

prince." 
" Ay so," said Ida with a bitter smile, 
" Our laws arc broken : let him enter too." 
Then Violet, she that sang the mournful song, 
And had a cousin tumbled on the plain, 
Petition'd too for him. " Ay so," she said, 
" I stagger in the stream : I cannot keep 
My heart an eddy from the brawling hour : 
We break our laws with ease, but let it be." 
"Ay so?" said Blanche: "Amazed am I to 

hear 
Your Highness : but your Highness breaks 

with ease 
The law your Highness did not make: 

'twas I. 
I had been wedded wife, I knew mankind. 
And block'd them out ; but these men came 

to woo 
Your Highness — verily I think to win." 



A MEDLEY. 



107 



So she, and turiiM askance a wintry eye : 
But Ida Willi a voice, lliat like a bell 
Toll'd by an earthquake in a trembling 

tower, 
Rang ruin, answer'd full of grief and scorn. 

" Fling our doors wide ! all, all, not one, 

but all, 
Not only he, but by my mother's soul, 
Whatever man lies wounded, friend or foe, 
Shall cuter, if he will. Let our girls flit, 
Till the storm die ! but liad you stood by us. 
The roar that breaks the Pharos from his 

base 
Had left us rock. She fain would stuig us 

too, 
But shall not. Pass, and mingle with your 

likes. 
We brook no further insult but are gone." 

She turn'd ; the very nape of her white 

neck 
Was rosed with indignation : but the Prince 
Her brother came ; the king her father 

charm'd 
Her wounded soul witli words : nor did mine 

own 
Refuse her proffer, lastly gave his hand. 

Then us they lifted up, dead weights, and 

bare 
Straight to the doors : to them the doors 

gave way 
Groaning, and in the Vestal entry shriek'd 
The virgin marble under iron heels : 
And on they moved and gain'd the hall, and 

there 
Rested : but great the crush was, and each 

base. 
To left and right, of those tall columns 

drown'd 
In silken fluctuation and the swarm 
Of female whisperers: at the further end 
Was Ida by the throne, the two great cats 
Close by her, like supporters on a shield, 
Bow-back'd with fear : but in the centre 

stood 
Tlie common men with rolling eyes ; amazed 
They glared upon the women, and aghast 
The women stared at these, all silent, save 
When armor clash'd or jingled, while the day. 
Descending, struck athwart the hall, and shot 
A flying splendor out of brass and steel. 
That o'er the statues leapt from head to 

head. 
Now fired an angry Pallas on the helm. 
Now set a wrathful Dian's moon ou flame, 
And now and then an echo started up, 
And shuddering fled from room to room, and 

died 
Of fright in far apartments. 

Then the voice 
Of Ida sounded, issuing ordinance : 
And me they bore up the broad stairs, and 

thro' 
The long-laid galleries past a hundred doors 
To one deep chamber shut from sound, and 

due 



To languid limbs and sickness ; loft me in it ; 
And others otherwhere they laid : and all 
That afternoon a sound arose of hoof 
And chariot, many a maiden passing home 
Till happier times ; but some were left of 

those 
Held sagest, and the great lords out and in, 
From those two hosts that lay beside th* 

walls, 
Walk'd at their will, and everything was 

changed. 



Ask me no more : the moon may draw the 
sea ; / 

The cloud mn(y stoop from heaven and take 

tiie shape. 
With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape ; 
But U too fond, when have I answer'd thee ? 
Ask me no more. 

Ask me no more : what answer should I 
give? 
I love not hollow cheek or faded eye : 
Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee die ! 
Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live ; 
Ask nie no more. 

Ask me no more : thy fate and mine are 
seal'd : 
I strove against the stream and all in vain : 
Let the great river take me to the main : 
No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield ; 
Ask me no more. 



vir. 

So was their sanctuary violated, 
So their fair college turn'd to hospital ; 
At first with all confusion : by and by 
Sweet order lived again with other laws: 
A kindlier influence reign'd ; and everywhere 
Low voices with the ministering hand 
Hung round the sick : the maidens came, 

they talk'd. 
They sang, they read : till she not fair, began 
To gather light, and she that was, became 
Her former beauty treble ; and to and fro 
With books, with flowers, with Angel offices. 
Like creatures native unto gracious act. 
And in their own clear element, they moved. 

But sadness on the soul of Ida fell. 
And hatred of her weakness, blent with 

ehame. 
Old studies fail'd ; seldom she spoka; but 

oft 
Clomb to the roofs, and gazed alone for hours 
On that disastrous leaguer, swarms of men 
Darkening her female field : void was her 

use ; 
And she as one that climbs a peak to gaze 
O'er land and main, and sees a great black 

cloud 
Drag inward from the deeps, a wall of night. 
Blot out the slope of sea from verge to shore, 
And suck the blinding splendor from the 

saad, 



io8 



THE PRINCESS: 



And quenching lake by lake and tarn by tarn 
Expunge the world : so fared she gazing 

tliere ; 
So blacken'd al! her world in secret, blank 
And waste it seem'd and vain ; till down she 

came, 
And found fair peace once more among the 

sick. 

And twilight dawn'd ; and morn by morn 

the lark 
Shot up and shrill'd in flickering gyres, but I 
Lay silent in the muffled cage of life : 
And twilight gloom'd ; and broader-grown 

the bowers 
Drew the great night into themselves, and 

Heaven, 
Star after star, arose and fell ; but I, 
Deeper than those weird doubts could reach 

me, lay 
Quite sunder'd from the moving Universe, 
Nor knew what eye was on me, nor the hand 
That nursed me, more than infants in their 

sleep. 

But Psyche tended B'lorian : with her oft 
Melissa came : for Blanche had gone, but left 
Her child among us, wilHng she should keep 
Court-favor : here and there the small bright 

head, 
A light of healing, glanced about the couch, 
Or thro' the parted silks llie tender face 
Peep'd. shining in upon the wounded man 
With blush and smile, a medicine in them- 
selves 
To wile the length from languorous hours, 

and draw 
The sting from pain ; nor seem'd it strange 

that soon 
He rose up whole, and those fair charities 
Join'd at her side ; nor stranger seem'd that 

hearts 
So gentle, so employ'd, should close in love. 
Than when two dew-drops on the petal shake 
To the same sweet air, and tremble deeper 

down. 
And slip at once all-fragrant into one. 

Less prosperously the second suit obtain'd 
At first with Psyche. Not though Blanche 

had sworn 
That after that dark iiipht among the fields. 
She needs must wed him for her own good 

name ; 
Not tho' he built upon the babe restored ; 
Nor tho' she liked him, yielded she, but 

fear'd 
To incense the Head once more ; till on a day 
When Cyril pleaded, Ida came behind 
Seen but of Psyche : on her foot she hung 
A moment, and she heard, at which her face 
A little flush'd, and she past on ; but each 
Assiuned from thence a half-consent involved 
In stillness, plighted troth, and were at peace. 

Nor only these : Love in the sacred halls 
Held carmval at will, and flving struck 
With sliowers of raudoai sweet ou maid and 
mail. 



Nor did her father cease to press my c'aim. 
Nor did mine own now reconciled ; nor yet 
Did those twin brothers, risen again and 

whole ; 
Nor Arac, satiate with his victory. 

But I lay still, and with me oft she sat : 
Tlien came a change ; for sometimes 1 woidd 

catch 
Her hand in wild delirium, gripe it hard, 
And tliug it like a viper off, and shriek 
" Vou are not Ida " ; clasp it once again, 
And call her Ida, tho' I knew her not, 
And call her sweet, as if in irony. 
And call her hard and cold which seem'd a 

truth : 
And still she fear'd that I should lose my 

mind, 
And often she believed that T should die : 
Till out of long frustration of her care. 
And pensive tendance in the all-weary noons, 
And watches in the dead, the dark, when 

clocks 
Throbb'd thunder thro' the palace floors, or 

call'd 
On flying Time from all their silver tongues — 
And out of memories of her kindlier days, 
And sidelong glances at my father's grief, 
And at the happy lovers heart in heart — 
And out of hauntings of my spoken love. 
And lonely listenings to my mntler'd dream. 
And often feeling of the helpless hands, 
Andwordlessbroodingson the wastedcheek — 
From all a closer interest flourish'd up. 
Tenderness touch by touch, and last, to these, 
Love, like an Alpine harebell hung with tears 
By some cold morning glacier ; frail at first 
And feeble, all unconscious of itself. 
But such as gather'd color day by day. 

Last I woke sane, but wellnigh close to 

death 
For weakness : it was evening: silent light 
Slept on the painted walls, wherein were 

wrought 
Two grand designs : for on one side arose 
The women up in wild revolt, and storm'd 
At the Oppian law. Titanic shapes, they 

cramm'd 
The forum, and balf-crush'd among the rest 
A dwarflike Cato cower'd On tlie other side 
Hortensia spoke against the tax ; behind, 
A train of dames : by axe and eagle sat. 
With all their foreheads drawn in Romao 



The fierce triumvirs; and before them paused 
Hortensia, pleading : angry was her face. 

I .saw the forms ; I knew not where I was : 
They did but seem as hollow shows; nor 

more 
Sweet Ida : palm to palm she sat : the dew 
Dwelt in her eyes, and softer all her shape 
And rounder show'd : I moved : I sigh'd : a 

touch 
Came round my wrist, and tears upon my 

band : 



A MEDLEY. 



Then all for Isngiior and self-pity ran 
Mine down my face, and witli what life I had, 
And like a tiovver that cannot all iinluld. 
So drench'd it is with tempest, to the sun. 
Yet, as it m ly, tnrns toward him, 1 on her 
Fixt my faint eyes, and utter'd whisperingly : 

"If you be, what I think you, some sweet 
dream, 
I would but ask you to fulfil yourself: 
But if you be that Ida whom I knew, 
I ask you nothing: only, if a dream. 
Sweet dream, be perfect. I shall die to- 
night. 
Stoop down and seem to kiss me ere I die." 



109 



I could no more, but lay li!:e one in trance, 
That hears his burial talk'd of by his friends. 
And cannot speak, nor move, nor ni ike ore 

But lies and dreads his doom. She turn'd ; 

she paused ; 
She stoop'd : and out of languor leapt a cry ; 
Leapt fiery Passion from the brinks of death ; 
And i believed thtt in the living world 
My spirit closed with Idi's at the lips ; 
Till back I fell, and from mine arnii she rose 
Glowing all over noble shame ; and all 
Her falser self slipt from her like a robe. 
And left her woman, lovelier in her mooj 
Than in her mould that other, when she came 
From barren deeps to conquer all with love : 
And down the streaming crystal dropt ; and 

she 
Far-fleeted by the purple island sidas. 
Naked, a double light in air and wave. 
To meet her Graces, where they deck'd her 

out 
For worship without end ; nor end of mine. 
Stateliest, for thee I but mute she glided 

forth. 
Nor glanced behind her. and I sank and slept, 
Fill'd thro' and thro' with Love, a happy 

sleep. 

Deep in the night I woke: she, near me, 
held 
A volume of the Poets of her land : 
There to herself, all in low tones, she read. 

"No.v sleeps the crimson petal, now the 
white; 
Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk ; 
Nor winks the gold fin in the porphvry font : 
Ihe firefly wa.cens: waken thou with me. 

" Now droops the milkwhite peacock like 
a ghost. 
And like a ghost she glimmers on to me. 

"Now lies the Earth all Danae to the stars, 
And all thy heart lies open unto me. 

"Now slides the silent meteor on, and 
leaves 
A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in ine. 



" Now folds the lily all her sweetness up, 
And slips into the bosom of the lake : 
So lold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip 
into my bosom and be lust in me." 

I heard her turn the page ; she found a 
small 
Sweet Idyl, and once more, as low, she read : 



" Come down, O maid, from yonder moun- 
tain height : 
What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd 

sang) 
In height and ctjid, the splendor of the hills? 
but cease to move so near the Heavens, and 

cease 

To glide a sunbeam by the blasted Pine, 
To ait a star upon the sparkling spire ; 
And come, for Love is of the valley, come, 
For Love is of the valley, come thou dovvij 
And find him ; by the happy threshold, he 
Or hand in hand with Plenty in the maize' 
Or red with spirted purple of the vats. 
Or foxlike in the vine ; nor cares to waHc 
With Death and Morning on the Silver 

Horns, 
Nor wilt thou snare him in the white ravine 
Nor find him dropt upon the firths of ice, ' 
That huddling slant in furrow-cloven falls 
To roll the torrent out of dusky doors : 
IJut follovy ; let the torrent dance thee down 
To find him in the valley ; let the wild 
Lean-headed Eagles yelp alone, and leave 
The monstrous ledges there to slope, and 

spill 
Their thousand wreaths of dangling water- 
smoke. 
That like a broken purpose waste in air : 
So waste not thou ; but come ; for all the 

vales 
Await thee ; azure pillars of the hearth 
Arise to thee ; the children call, and I 
Thy shepherd pipe, and sweet is every sound. 
Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet; 
Myriads of rivulets hurrying thro' the lawn, 
1 he moan of doves in immemorial elms, 
And murmuring of innumerable bees." 
So she low-toned; while with shut eves I 
lay •" 

Listening : then look'd. Pale was the perfect 

face ; 
The bnsnm with long sighs labor'd ; and meek 
Seem'd the full lips, and mild the luminous 

eyes. 
And the voice trembled and the hand. She 

said 
Prokenly, that ?he knew it, she hnd fail'd 
In sweet humilitv ; had fail'd in all : 
Thit all her labor was but as a block 
Left in the quarry : but she still were loath. 
She still were loath to yield herself to one. 
That wholly scorn'd to help their equal 

rights 
Against the sons of men. and barbarous laws. 
She prav'd me not to judge their cause from 

her 
That wrong'd it, sought far less for truth than 

power 



THE PRINCESS. 



In knowledRC : sometliiiig wild within lier 

breast, 
A greater than all knowledge, beat her down. 
And she had nursed me there from week to 

week : 
Much had she learnt in little time. In part 
It was ill-counsel had misled the girl 
To vex true hearts : yet was she but a girl — 
"Ah fool, and made myself a Queen of 

farce ! 
When comes another such ? never, I think 
Till the Sun drop dead from the signs." 

Her voice 
Choked, and her forehead sank upon her 

hands, 
And her great heart tinough all the faultful 

Past 
Went sorrowing in a pause I dared not 

break ; 
Till notice of a change in the dark world 
Was lisp'd about the acacias, and a bird, 
That early woke to feed her little ones. 
Sent from a dewy breast a cry for light : 
She moved, and at her feet the volume fell. 
" Blame not thyselt too much," I said, '"nor 
blame 
Too much the sons of men and barbarous 

laws ; 
These were the rough ways of the world till 

now. 
Henceforth thou hast a helper, me, that know 
The woman's cause is man's : they rise or 

sink 
Together, dwarf'd or godlike, bond or free : 
For she that out of Lethe scales with man 
The shining steps of Nature, shares with 

man 
His nights, his days, moves with him to one 

goal. 
Stays all thefairyoung planet in herhands — 
If she be small, sliglu-natured, miserable. 
How shall men grow.'' but work no more 

alone I 
Our place is much : as far as in us lies 
We two will serve them both in aiding her — 
Will clear away the parasitic forms 
That seem to keep her up but drag her 

down — 
Will leave her space to burgeon out of all 
Within her^ let her make herself her own 
To give or keep, to live and learn and be 
All that not harms distinctive womanhood. 
For woman is not undevelopt man, 
But diverse : could we make her as the man. 
Sweet love were slain : his dearest bond is 

this. 
Not like to like, but like in difference. 
Yet in the long years liker must they grow ; 
The mm be more of woman, she of man ; 
He gain in sweetness and in moral height. 
Nor lose the wrestling thews that throw the 

world ; 
She mental breadth, nor fail in childward 

care. 
Nor lose the childlike in the larger mind ; 
Till at the last she set herself to man. 
Like perfect music unto noble words : 
And so these twain, upon the skirts of Time, 



mating, with one full 



Sit side by side, full-summ'd in all their 

powers, 
Dispensing harvest, sowing the To-be, 
Selt-revereiit each and reverencing each, 
Distinct in individualities. 
But like each other ev'n as those who love. 
Then comes the statelier Eden back to men : 
Then reign the world's great bridals, chaste 

and calm : 
Then springs the crowning race of humankind, 
May these things be ! " 

Sighing she spoke, " I fear 
They will not." 

" Dear, but let us type them now 
In our own lives, and this proud watchword 

rest 
Of equal ; seeing either sex alone 
Is half itself, and in true mavriar;e lies 
Nor equal, nor unequal : each Tulfils 
Defect in each, and always thought in thought. 
Purpose in purpose, will in will, they grow, 
1 he single pure and perfect animal. 
The two cell'd heart beating, with 

stroke. 
Life." 

And again sighing she spoke : " A dream 
That once was mine ! what woman taught 

you this?" 

"Alone," I said, "from earlier than I know, 
Immersed in rich foreshadow ings of the world, 
I loved the v\oman : he, that doth not, lives 
A drowning life, besotted in sweet self. 
Or pines in sad experience worse than death. 
Or keeps his wing'd affections dipt with 

crime : 
Yet was there one thro' whom I loved her, 

one 
Not learned, save in gracious household ways, 
Not perfect, nay, but full offender wants. 
No Angel, but a dearer being, all dipt 
In Angel instincts, breathing Paradise, 
Interpreter between the Gods and men. 
Who look'd all native to htr place, and yet 
On tiptoe seem'd to touch upon a sphere 
Too gross to tread, and all male minds per- 
force 
Sway'd to her from their orbits as they moved, 
And girdled her with music. Happy he 
With such a mother ! faith in womankind 
Beats with his blood, and trust in all things 

high 
Comes easy to him, and tho' he trip and fall 
He shall not blind his sold with clay." 

'■ But I," 
Said Ida, tremulously, " so all unlike — 
It seems you love to cheat yourself with 

words : 
This mother is your model. I have heard 
Of your strange' doubts : they well migh: be : 

1 seem 
A mockery to my own self. Never, Prince ; 
Vou cannot love nie." 

" Nay but thee," I said, 
" From yearlong poring oil thy pictiircd eyes, 
Ere seen I loved, and loved thee seen, ajid 

saw 
Thee woman thro' the crust of iron moods 



■^ 



A MEDLEY. 



That mask'd thee from men's reverence up, 

and forced 
Sweet love on pranks of saucy boyhood : now, 
Giv'n back to life, to life indeed, thro' thee. 
Indeed 1 love: the new day comes, the lij;ht 
Dearer for night, as dearer thou for faults 
Lived over : lift thine eyes ; my doubts are 

dead. 
My haunting sense of hollow shows : the 

change, 
This truthful change in thee has kill'd it. 

Dear, 
Look up, and let thy nature strike on mine. 
Like yonder morning on the blind half -world ; 
Approach and fear not ; breathe upon my 

brows ; 
In that fine air I tremble, all the past 
Melts mist-like into this bright hour, and this 
Is morn to more, and all the rich to-conie 
Reels, as the golden Autumn woodland reels 
Athwart the smoke of burning weeds. For- 
give me, 
I waste my lieart in signs : let be. My bride, 
My wife, my life. O we will walk this world. 
Yoked in all e.xercise of noble end. 
And so thro' those dark gates .icross the wild 
That no man knows. Indeed I love thee : 

come. 
Yield thyself up : my hopes and thine are one : 
Accomplish thou my manhood and thyself; 
Lay thy sweet hands in mine and trust to 

me." . 



CONCLUSION. 

So closed our tale, of which I give you all 
The random scheme as wildly as it rose : 
The words are mostly mine ; for when we 

ceased 
There came a minute's pause, and Walter 

said, 
" I wish she had not yielded ! " then to me, 
" What, if you drest it up poetically ! " 
So pray'd the men, the women : I gave assent : 
Yet how to bind the scatter'd scheme of seven 
Together in one sheaf? What style could 

suit? 
The men required that I should give through- 
out 
The sort of mock-heroic gigantesque. 
With which we banter'd little Lilia first : 
The women— and perhaps they felt their 

power, 
I'rsnmethingin the ballads which they sang, 
<-)i HI their silent influence as they sat, 
Had ever seem'd to wrestle with burlesque, 
And drove us, last, to quite a solemn close — 
Ihey hated banter, wish'd for something real, 
A gall.int light, a noble princess — why 
Not make her true-heroic — true-sublime ? 
Or all, they said, as earnest as the close ? 
Which yet with such a framework scarce could 

be. 
Then rose a little feud betwixt the two, 
Betwixt the mockers and the realists ; 
And I, betwixt them both, to please them 

both, 



And yet to give the storj' as it rose, 

1 moved as in a strange diagonal, 

And maybe neither pleased myself nor them. 

rUit Lilia pleased me, for she took no part 
In our dispute : the sequel of the tale 
Had touch 'd her; and slie sat, she pluck'd 

the grass. 
She flung it from her, thinking : last, she fixt 
A showery glance upon her aunt, and said, 
"You — tell us what we are " who might 

have told. 
For she was cramm'd with theories out of 

boc/ks, / 
But that there r6se a shout : the gates were 

closed 
At sunset, and the crowd were swarming 

now. 
To take their leave, about the garden rails. 

So I and some went out to these : we 

climb'd 
The slope to Vivian-place, and turning saw 
The happy valleys, half in light, and half 
Far-shadowing from the west, a land of 

peace ; 
Gray halls alone among the massive groves ; 
Trim hamlets ; here and there a rustic tower 
Half-lost in belts of hop and breadths of 

wheat ; 
The shimmering glimpses of a stream ; the 

seas ; 
A red sail, or a white ; and far beyond. 
Imagined more than seen, the skirts of 

France. 

" Look there, a garden ! " said my college 

friend. 
The Tory member's elder son, "and there ! 
God bless the narrow sea which keeps her off, 
And keeps our Britain, whole within herself, 
.■\ nation yet, the rulers and the ruled — 
Some sense of duty, something of a faith. 
Some reverence for the laws ourselves have 

made. 
Some patient force to change them when we 

vyill. 
Some civic manhood firm against the crowd — 
But yonder, whiff! there comes a sudden 

heat. 
The gravest citizen seems to lose his head. 
The king is scared, the soldier will not fight, 
'I'he little boys begin to shoot and stab, 
A kingdom topples over with a shriek 
Like an old woman, and down rolls the world 
In mock heroics stranger than our own ; | 

Revolts, rejuiblics, revolutions, most ) 

No graver than a school-bovs' barring out ; I 
Too comic for the solemn things they are, ■ 
Too solemn for the comic touches in them, | 
Like our wild Princess with as wise a dream | 
As some of theirs — God bless the narrow | 

seas ! J 

I wish they were a whole Atlantic broad." I 

"Have patience," I replied, "ourselves .; 
are full 
Of social wrong ; and maybe wildest dreams J 



THE PRINCESS: A MEDLEY. 



Are but the needful preludes of the truth : 
For me, the genial day, the happy crowd, 
The sport half-science, fill me with a faith. 
This fine old world of ours is but a child 
Yet in the go-cart. Patience ! Give it time 
To learn its limbs: there is a hand that 
guides." 

In such discourse we gain'd the garden rails, 
And there we saw Sir Walter where he stood, 
Kefore a tower of crimson holly-oaks, 
Among six boys, head under head, and look'd 
No little lily-handed I'.aronet he, 
A great broad-shoulder'd genial Englishman, 
A lord of fat prize-oxen and of slieep, 
A raiser of huge melons and of pine, 
A patron of some thirty charities, 
A pamphleteer on guano and on grain, 
A quarter-sessions chairman, abler none ; 
Fair-hair'd and redder than a windy mom ; 
Now shaking hands with him, now him, of 

those 
That stood the nearest — now address'd to 

speech — 
Who spoke few words and pithy, such as 

closed 
Welcome, farewell, and welcome for the year 
To follow : a shout rose again, and made 
The long line of the approaching rookery 

swerve 
From the elms, and shook the brauches of 

the deer 



From slope to slope thro' distant ferns, and 

rang 
Beyond the bourn of sunset ; O, a shout 
More joyful than the city-roar that hails 
Premier or king! Why should not these 

great Sirs 
Give up their parks some dozen times a year 
To let the people breathe ? So thrice they 

cried, 
I likewise, and in groups they stream'd away. 

But we went back to the Abbey, and sat 

on. 
So much the gathering darkness charm'd : 

we sat 
But spoke not, rapt in nameless reverie. 
Perchance upon the future man : the walls 
Blacken'd about us, bats wheel'd, and owls 

whoop'd. 
And gradually the powers of the night, 
That range above tlie region of the wind. 
Deepening the courts of twilight broke them 

up 
Thro' all the silent spaces of the worlds, 
Beyond all thought into the Heaven of 

Heavens. 

Last little Lilia, rising quietly. 
Disrobed the glimmering statue of Sir Ralph 
From those rich silks, and home well-pleased 
we went. 



IN ME MORI AM. 



"3 



IN MEMORIAM. 



Stkong Son of God, immortal Love, 
Whom we, that have not seen tliy face, 
By faith, and fanh alone, embrace, 

Believing where we cannot prove ; 

Thine are these orbs of light and shade ; 

Thou madest life in man and brute ; 

Thou madest Death ; and lo, thy foot 
Is on the skull which thou hast made. 

Thou wilt not leave us in the dust : 

Thou madest man, he knows not why ; 
He thinks he was not made to die ; 

And thou hast made him : thou art just. 

Thou seemest human and divine. 
The highest, holiest manhood, thou : 
Our wills are ours, we know not how ; 

Our wills are ours, to make them thine. 

Our little systems have their day ; 
They have their day and cease to be : 
They are but broken lights of thee, 

And thou, O Lord, art more than th2y. 

We have but faith : we cannot know ; 

For knowledge is of things we see ; 

And yet we trust it comes from thee, 
A beam in darkness : let it grow. 

Let knowledge grow from more to more, 
But move of reverence in us ctwell ; 
That mind and soul, according well. 

May make one music as before. 

But vaster. We are fools and slight ; 
We mock thee when we do not fear : 
But help thy foolish ones to bear ; 

Help thy vain worlds to bear thy light. 

Forgive what seem'd my sin in me ; 

What seem'd my worth since I began ; 

For merit lives from man to man, 
And not from man, O Lord, to thee. 

Forgive my grief for one removed. 
Thy creature, whom I found so fair. 
1 trust he lives in thee, and there 

I find him worthier to be loved. 

Forgive these wild and wandering cries, 
Confusions of a wasted youth ; 
Forgive them where they fail in truth, 

And in thy wisdom make me wise. 

1849. 



IN MEMORIAM 
A. H. H. 

OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII. 

/ I. 

I HELD it truth, with him who sings 
To one clear harp in divers tones, 
That men may rise on stepping-stones 

Of their dead selves to higher things. 

But who shall so forecast the years. 
And find in loss a gain to match ? 
Or reach a hand thro' time to catch 

The far-off interest of tears? 

Let Love clasp Grief lest both be drown'd. 
Let darkness keep her raven gloss : 
Ah, sweeter to be drunk with loss, 

To dance with death, to beat the ground. 

Than that the victor Hours should scorn 
The long result of kive, and boast, 
" Behold the man that loved and lost 

But all he was is overworn." 



Old Yew, which graspest at the stones 
That name the underlying dead, 
Thy fibres net the dreamless head. 

Thy roots are wrapt about the bones. 

The seasons bring the flower again, 
And bring the firstling to the flock ; 
And in the dusk of thee, the clock 

Beats out the little lives of men. 

O not for thee the glow, the bloom, 
Who changest not in any gale. 
Nor branding summer suns avail 

To touch thy thousand years of gloora : 

And gazing on thee, sullen tree. 
Sick for thy stubborn hardihood, 
I seem to fail from out my blood 

And grow incorporate into thee. 



O SORROW, cruel fellowship, 

O Priestess in the vaults of Death, 
O sweet and bitter in a breath, 

What whispers from thy lying lip ? 

" The stars," she whispers, " blindly run ; 

A web is vvov'n across the sky ; 

From out waste places comes a cry. 
And murmurs from the dying sun ; 



114 



IN ME MORI AM. 



" And all the phantom, Nature, stands, 
With all the music in her tone, 
A hollow echo of my own, — 

A hollow form with empty hands." 

And shall I take a thing so blind, 
Embrace her as my natural good ; 
Or crush her, like a vice of blood, 

Upon the threshold of the mind? 



To Sleep I give my powers away ; 

My will is bondsman to the dark; 

I sit within a hehnless bark. 
And with my heart I muse and say : 

O heart, how fares it with thee now, 
I'hat thou shouldst fail from thy desire, 
Who scarcely darest to inquire 

" What is it makes me beat so low ? " 

Something it is which thou hast lost. 
Some pleasure from thine early years. 
Break, thou deep vase of chilling tears, 

That grief hath shaken into frost ! 

Such clouds of nameless trouble cross 
All night below the darken'd eyes ; 
With morning wakes the will, and cries, 

"Thou shalt not be the fool of loss." 



I SOMETIMES hold it half a sin 
To put in words the grief I feel ; 
For words, like Nature, half reveal 

And half conceal the Soul within. 

But, for the unquiet heart and brain, 
A use in measured language lies ; 
The sad mechanic exercise. 

Like dull narcotics, numbing pain. 

In words, like weeds, I Ml wrap me o'er. 
Like coarsest clothes against the cold ; 
But that large grief which these enfold 

Is given in outline and no more. 



One writes, that " Other friends remain,' 
That " Loss is common to the race," - 
And common is the commonplace, 

And vacant chaff well meant for grain. 

That loss is common would not make 
My own less bitter, rather more : 
Too common ! Never morning wore 

To evening, but some heart did break. 

O father, wheresoe'er thou be, 

Who pledges! now thy gallant son ; 
A shot, ere half thy draught be done, 

Hath still'd the life that beat from thee. 

O mother, praying God will save 

Thy sailor, — while thy head is bow'd. 
His heavy-shotted hammock-shroud 

Drops in his vast and wandering grave. 



Ye know no more than I who wrought 
At that last hour to please him well ; 
Who mused on all I had to tell, 

And something written, something thought; 

Expecting still his advent home : 
And ever met him on his way 
With wishes, thinking, here to-day, 

Or here to-morrow will he come. 

O somewhere, meek unconscious dove, 
Tliat sittest ranging golden hair ; 
And glad to find thyself so fair. 

Poor child, that waitest for thy love ! 

For now her father's chimney glows 

In expectation of a guest ; 

And thinking "This will please him best," 
She takes a riband or a rose ; 

For he will see them on to-night ; 

And with the thought her color burns ; 

And, having left the glass, she turns 
Once more to set a ringlet right ; 

And, even wlien she turn'd, the curse 
Had fallen, and her future lord 
Was drown'd in passing thro' the ford. 

Or kill'd in falling from his horse. 

O what to her shall be the end ? 

And what to me remains of good? 

To her, perpetual maidenhood, 
And unto me no second friend. 



Dark house, by which once more I stand 
Here in the long unlovely street, 
iJoors, where my heart vias used to beat 

So quickly, waiting for a hand, 

A hand that ^h be clasp'd no more, — 
Behold me, for I cannot sleep. 
And like a guilty thing I creep 

At earliest morning to the door. 

He is not here ; but far away 
The noise of life begins again. 
And ghastly thro' the drizzling rain 

On the bald street breaks the blank day. 

VIII. 

A HAPPY lover who has come 
To look on lier that loves him well. 
Who 'lights and rings the gateway bell. 

And learns her gone and far from home ; 

He saddens, all the magic light 
Dies off at once from bower and hall, 
And all the place is dark, and all 

The chambers emptied of delight : 

So find I every pleasant spot 

In which we two were wont to meet, 
'I'he field, the chamber, and the street. 

For all is dark where thou art not. 






" Fair ship, that from tlie Italian shore 
Sailest the placid ocean-plains." 



IN MEMORIAM. 



"S 



Yet as that other, wandering there 
In those deserted walks, may tind 
A lluwer beat with rain and wind. 

Which once slie foster'd up with care : 

So seems it in my deep regret, 

my forsaken heart, with thee 
And this poor flower of poesy 

Which little cared for fades not yet. 

^ut since it pleased a vanish'd eye, 

1 go to jilant it on his tomb, 
That if it can it there may bloom, 

Or dying, there at least may die. 



Fair ship, that from the Italian shore 
Sailest the placid ocean-plains 
With my lost Arthur's loved remains, 

Spread thy full wings, and waft him o'er. 

So draw him home to those that mourn 
In vain ; a favorable speed 
Ruffle thy mirror'd mast, and lead 

Thro' prosperous floods his holy urn. 

All night no ruder air perplex 

Thy sliding keel, till Phosphor, bri;;ht 
As our pure love, thro' early light 

Shall glimmer on the dewy decks. 

Sphere all your lights around, above ; 

Sleep, gentle heavens, before the prow ; 

Sleep, gentle winds, as he sleeps now, 
My friend, the brother of my love ; 

Rly Arthur, whom I shall not see 
Till all my widow'd race be run ; 
Dear as the mother to the son. 

More than my brothers are to me. 



I HEAR the noise about thy keel ; 

I hear the bell struck in the night ; 

I see the cabin-window bright ; 
I see the sailor at the wheel. 

Thou bringest the sailor to his wife, 
And travell'd men from foreign lands; 
And letters unto trembling hands ; 

And, thy dark freight, a vanish'd life. 

So bring him : we have idle dreams : 
This look of quiet flatters thus 
Our home-bred fancies : O to us, 

The fools of habit, sweeter seems 

To rest beneath the clover sod, 
That takes the sunshine and the rains. 
Or where the kneeling hamlet drains 

The chalice of the grapes of God ; 

Than if with thee the roaring wells 
Should gulf him fathom-deep in brine ; 
And hands so often clasjj'd in mine 

Should toss with tangle and with shells. 



Calm is the mom without a sound, 
Cahn as to suit a calmer grief. 



And only thro' the faded leaf 
The chestnut pattering to the ground : 

Calm and deep peace on this high wold 
And on these dews that drench the furzes 
And all the silvery gossamers 

That twinkle into green and gold : 

Calm and still light on yon great plain 
That sweeps with all its autumn bowers, 
And crowded farms and lessening towers, 

To mingle with the bounding main : 

Calm and deep peace in this wide air. 
These leaves that redden to the fall ; 
And in my heart, if calm at all, 

If any calm, a calm despair : 

Calm on the seas, and silver sleep. 
And waves that sway themselves in rest. 
And dead calm in that noble breast 

Which heaves but with the heaving deep. 



Lo, as a dove when up she sp-lngs 
To bear thro' Heaven a tale of woe, 
Some dolorous message knit below 

The wild pulsation of her wings ; 

Like her I go ; I cannot stay ; 
I leave this mortal ark behind, 
A weight of nerves without a mind, 

And leave the cliffs, and haste away 

O'er ocean-mirrors rounded large. 
And reach the glow of southern skies, 
And see the sails at distance rise, 

And linger weeping on the marge. 

And saying, "Comes he thus, my friend? 
Is this the end of all my care?" 
And circle moaning in the air : 

"Is this the end? Is this the end?" 

And forward dart again, and play 
About the prow, and back return 
To where the body sits, and learn, 

That I have been an hour away. 



Teaks of the widower, when he sees 
A late-lost form that sleep reveals. 
And moves his doubtful arms, and feels 

Her place is empty, fall like these ; 

Which weep a loss forever new, i 

A void where heart on heart reposed ; 
And, where warm hands have prest anJ 
clos'd. 

Silence, till I be silent too. 

Which weep the comrade of my choice, 
An awful thought, a life removed, 
The human-hearted man I loved, 

A Spirit, not a breathing voice. 

Come Time, and teach me, many years, 

I do not suffer in a dream ; 

For now so strange do these things seenv 
Mine eyes have leisure for .their tears; 



IN MEMORIAM. 



My fancies time to rise on wint;, 

And glance about the appro.iching sails, 
As tho' they brought but merchants' bales, 

And not the burthen that they bring. 



If one should bring me this report. 
That thou hadst toach'd the land to-day, 
And I went down unto the quay. 

And found thee lying in the port ; 

And standing, muffled round with woe. 
Should see thy passengers in lank 
Come stepping lightly down the jjlank, 

And beckoning unto those they know ; 

And if along with these should come 
The man I held as half-divine ; 
Should strike a sudden hand in mine, 

And ask a thousand things of home ; 

And I should tell him all my pain. 
And how my life had droop'd of late, 
And he should sorrow o'er my stale 

And marvel what possess'd my brain ; 

And I ]ierceived no touch of change, 
No hint of death in all his frame. 
But found him all in all the same, 

I should not feel it to be strange. 



To-night the winds begin to rise 
And roar from yonder dropping day : 
The last red leaf is whlrl'd away, 

The rooks are blown about the skies ; 

The forest crack'd, the waters curl'd, 
The cattle huddled on the lea ; ' 
And wildly dash'd on tower and tree 

The sunbeam strikes along the world : 

And but for fancies, which aver 
That all thy motions gently pass 
Athwart a plane of molten glass, 

I scarce could brook the strain and stir 

That makes the barren branches loud ;. 
And but for fear it is not so. 
The wild unrest that lives in woe 

Would dote and pore on yonder cloud 

That rises upward always higher. 
And onward drags a laboring breast, 
And topples rcnmd the dreary west, 

A looming bastion fringed with lire. 



V/hat words arc these have fall'n from me? 

Can calm despair and wild unrest 

Be tenants of a single breast. 
Or sorrow such a changeling be? 

Or doth she only seem to take 

The touch of change in calm or storm ; 

I'ut knows no more of transient form 
In her deep self, than some dead lake 



That holds the shadow of a lark 
Hung ill the shadow of a heaven? 
Or has the shock, so harshly given. 

Confused me lilie the unhappy bark 

That strikes by night a craggy shelf, 
And staggers blindly ere she sink? 
And stunn'd me from my power to think 

And all my knowledge of myself; 

And made me that delirious man 
Whose fancy fuses old and new, 
And flashes into false and true, 

And mingles all without a plan ? 



Thou comest, much wept for : such a breeze 
Coinpell'd thy canvas, and my prayer 
Was as the whisper of an air 

To breathe thee over lonely seas. 

For I in spirit saw thee move 
Thro' circles of the bounding sky. 
Week after week : the days go by : 

Come quick, thou bringest all 1 love. 

Henceforth, wherever thou may'st roam. 
My blessing, like a line of light. 
Is on the waters day and night. 

And like a beacon guards thee hotne. 

So may whatever tempest mars 

Mid-ocean spare thee, sacred bark ; 
And balmy drops in summer dark 

Slide from the bosom of the stars. 

So kind an office hath been done. 

Such iirecious relics brought by thee; 
The dust of him I shall not see 

Till all my widow'd race be run. 

XVIII. 

'T IS well ; 't is something : we may stand 
Where he in English earth is laid, 
And from his ashes may be made 

The violet of his native land. 

'Tis little : but it looks in truth 
As if the quiet bones were blest 
Among familiar names to rest 

And in the places of liis youth. 

Come then, pure hands, and bear the he id 
Th.at sleeps or wears the mask of sleep. 
And come, whatever loves to weep. 

And hear the ritual of the dead. 

Ah yet, ev'n yet, if this might be, 
I, falling on his faithful heart, _ 
Would breathing through his lips impart 

The life that almost dies in me ; 

That dies not, but endures with pain. 
And slowly forms the firmer mind. 
Treasuring the look it cannot find, 

The words that are not heard again. 



IN MEMORIAM. 



The Danube to the Severn gave 

The darken'cl heart that beat no more ; 
They laid him by the pleasant shore, 

And in the hearing of the wave. 

There twice a day the Severn fills; 
The salt sea-water passes by, 
And hushes half the babbling Wye, 

And makes a silence in the hills. 

The Wye is hush'd nor moved along. 
And hush'd my deepest grief of all. 
When fill'd with tears that cannot fall, 

I brim with sorrow drowning song. 

The tide flows down, the wave again 

Is vocal in its wooded walls ; 

My deeper anguish also falls. 
And I can speak a little then. 



The lesser griefs that may be said. 
That breathe a thousand tender vows. 
Are but as servants in a house 

Where lies the master newly dead ; 

Who speak their feeling as it is, 

And weep the fulness from the mind : 
" It will be hard," they say, "to find 

Another service such as this." 

My lighter moods are like to these. 
That out of words a comfort win ; 
But there are other griefs within. 

And tears that at their fountain freeze : 

For by the hearth the children sit 
Cold in that atmosphere of Death, 
And scarce endure to draw the breath. 

Or like to noiseless phantoms flit : 

But open converse is there none. 
So much the vital spirits sink 
To see the vacant chair, and think, 

" How good ! how kind ! and he is gone.' 



I SING to him that rests below, 
And, since the grasses round me wave, 
I take the grasses of the grave. 

And make them pipes whereon to blow. 

The traveller hears me now and then. 
And sometimes harshly will he speak : 
"This fellow would make weakness weak, 

And melt the waxen hearts of men." 

Another answers, "Let him be. 
He loves to make parade of pain. 
That with his piping he may gain 

The praise that comes to constancy." 

A third is wroth, " Is this an hour 
For private sorrow's barren song. 
When more and more the people throng 

The chairs and thrones of civil power? 



" A time to sicken and to swoon. 

When Science reaches forth her arms 
To feel from world to world, and charms 

Her secret from the latest moon?" 

Behold, ye speak an idle thing : 
Ye never knew the sacred dust : 
I do but sing because I must, 

And pipe but as the linnets sing : 

And one is glad : her note is gay. 

For now her little ones have ranged ; 
And one is sad ; her note is changed, 

Because her brood is stol'n away. 

XXII. 

The path by which we twain did go. 
Which led by tracts that pleased us well. 
Thro' four sweet years arose and fell. 

From flower to flower, from snow to snow : 

And we with singing cheer'd the way. 
And crown'd with all the season lent, 
From April on to April went, , 

And glad at heart from May to May : 

But where the path we walk'd began 
To slant the fifth autumnal slope, 
As we descended, following Hope, 

There sat the Shadow fear'd of man ; 

Wlio broke our fair companionship. 
And spread his mantle dark and cold, 
And wrapt thee formless in the fold, 

And duH'd the murmur on thy lip, 

And bore thee where I could not see 
Nor follow, tho' I walk in haste. 
And think that somewhere in the waste 

The Shadow sits and waits for me. 

xxm. 
Now, sometimes in my sorrow shut. 

Or breaking into song by fits. 

Alone, alone, to where he sits, 
The Shadow cloak'd from head to fiiot. 

Who keeps the keys of all the creeds, 
I wander, often falling lame. 
And looking back to whence I came. 

Or on to where the pathway leads ; 

And crying, " How changed from where it 
ran 

Thro' lands where not a leaf was dumb ; 

But all the lavish hills would hum 
The murmur of a happy Pan : 

" When each by turns was guide to each, 
And Fancy light from Fancy caught. 
And Thought leapt out to wed with 
Thought 

Ere Thought could wed itself with Speech ; 

" And all we met was fair and good, 
And a'l was good that Time could bring. 
And all the secret of the Spring 

Moved in the chambers of the blood ; 



4 



iiS 



IN MEMORIAM. 



"And many an old philosophy 
On Argive heights divinely sang, 
And round us all the thicket rang 

To many a flute of Arcady." 

XXIV. 

And was the day of my delight 
As sure and perfect as I say ? 
The very source and fount of Day 

Is dash'd with vv-andering isles of night. 

If all was good and fair we met, 
This earth had been the Paradise 
It never look'd to human eyes 

Since Adam left his garden yet. 

And is it that the haze of grief 

Makes former gladness loom so great? 
The lowness of the present state, 

That sets the past in this relief? 

Or that the past will always win 

A glory from its being far ; 

And orb into the perfect star 
We saw iv)t, when we moved therein ? 



I KNOW that this was Life, — the track 
Whereon with equal feet we fared ; 
And then, as now, the day prepared 

The daily burden for the back. 

But this it was that made me move 

As light as carrier-birds in air ; 

I loved the weight 1 had to bear, 
Because it needed help of love ; 

Nor could T weary, heart or limb. 

When mighty Love would cleave in twain 
The lading of a single pain. 

And part it, giving half to him. 

XXVI. 

Still onward winds the dreary way ; 
I with it ; for 1 long to prove 
No lapse of moons can canker Love, 

Whatever fickle tongues may say. 

And if that eye which watches guilt 
And goodness, and hath power to see 
Within the green the moulder'd tree, 

And towers fall'n as soon as built, — 

O, if indeed that eye foresee 
Or see (in Him is no before) 
In more of life true life no more, 

And Love the indifference to be, 

Then might T find, ere yet the mom 
Breaks hither over Indian seas, 
That Shadow waiting with the keys. 

To shroud me from niy proper scoru. 

XXVH. 

I ENVY not in any moods 
The captive void of noble rage. 
The linnet born within the cage. 

That never knew the summer woods : 



I envy not the beast that takes 
His license in the field of time, 
Unfetter'd by the sense of crime. 

To whom a conscience never wakes : 

Nnr, what may count itself as blest, 
The heart that never plighted troth. 
But stagnates in the weeds of sloth; 

Nor any want- begotten rest. 

I hold it true, whate'er befall ; 

I feel it, when I sorrow most ; 

'T is better to have loved and lost 
Than never to have loved at all. 

XXVIII. 

The time draws near the birth of Chrises 
The moon is hid ; the night is still ; 
The Christmas bells from hill to hill 

Answer each other in the mist. 

Four voices of four hamlets round. 
From far and near, on mead and moor. 
Swell out and fail, as if a door 

Were shut between me and the sound : 

Each voice four changes on the wind. 
That now dilate, and now decrease, 
Peace and good-will, good-will and peace^ 

Peace and good-will, to all mankind. 

This year I slept and woke with pain, 
I almost wish'd no more to wake. 
And that my hold on life would break 

Before I heard those bells again : 

But they my troubled spirit rule. 
For they controll'd me when a bny ; 
They bring me sorrow touch'd with joy. 

The merry, merry bells of Yule. 



With such compelling cause to grieve 
As daily vexes household peace. 
And chains regret to his decease. 

How dare we keep our Christmas-eve ,• 

Which brings no more a welcome guest 
To enrich the threshold of the night 
With shower'd largess of delight. 

In dance and song and game and jest. 

Yet go, and while the holly-boughs 
Entwine the cold baptismal font, 
Make one wreath more for Use and Wont 

That guard the portals of the house ; 

Old sisters of a day gone by, 

Cray nurses, loving nothing new ; 
Why should they miss their yearly due 

Before their time ? They too will die. 



With trembling fingers did we weave 
The holly round the Christmas hearth ; 
A rainy cloud possess'd the earth, 

And sadly fell our Christmas-eve. 



IN MEMORIAM. 



At our old pastimes in the hall 

We gamboH'd, making vain pretence 
Of gladness, with an awful sense 

Of one mute Shadow watching all. 

We paused : the winds were in the beech 
We heard them sweep the winter land ; 
And in a circle hand in-hand 

Sat silent, looking each at each. 

Then echo-like our voices rang ; _ 
We sung, tho' every eye was dim, 
A merry song we sang with him 

Last year : impetuously we sang : 

We ceased : a gentler feeling crept 

Upon us: surely rest is meet : 

" They rest," ^e said, " their sleep is 
sweet," 
And silence follow'd, and we wept. 

Our voices took a higher range ; 

Once more we sang : " They do not die 
Nor lose their mortal sympathy, 

Nor change to us, although they change ; 

" Rapt from the fickle and the frail 
With gather'd power, yet the same, 
Pierces the keen seraphic tlaine 

From orb to orb, from veil to veil." 

Rise, happy mom, rise, holy morn. 

Draw forth the cheerful day from night : 
O Father, touch the east, and light 

The light that shone when Hope was born. 

XXXI. 

When Lazarus left his charnel-cave, 
And home to Mary's house rcturn'd, 
Was this demanded, — if he yearn'd 

To hear her weeping by his grave ? 

" Where wert thou, brother, those four 
days ? " 

There lives no record of reply. 

Which telling what it is to die 
•Had surely added praise to praise. 

From every house the neighbors met, 
The streets svere fiU'd with joyful sound, 
A solemn g'adness even crown'd 

The purple brows of Olivet. 

Behold a man raised up by Christ ! 

The rest remaineth unreveal'd ; 

He told it not ; or something seal'd 
The lips of that Evangelist. 

XXXII. 

Her eyes are homes of silent prayer, 
Nor other thought her mind admits 
But, he was dead, and there he sits. 

And he that brought him back is there. 

Then one deep love doth supersede 
All other, when her ardent gaze 
Roves from the living brother's face, 

And rests upon the Life indeed. 



All subtle thought, all curious fears. 
Borne down by gladness so complete, 
She bows, she bathes the Saviour's feet 

With costly spikenard and with tears. 

Thrice blest whose lives are faithful prayers, 
Whose loves in higher love endure ; 
What souls possess themselves so pure, 

Or is there blessedness like theirs ? 

XXXIII. 

O THOU that after toil and storm 

Mayst seem to have reach'd a purer air, 
Whose faith has centre everywhere. 

Nor cares to fix itself to form. 

Leave thou thy sister, when she prays, 
Her early Heaven, her happy views ; 
Nor thou with shadow'd hint confus« 

A life that leads melodious days. 

Her faith thro' form is pure as thine. 
Her hands are quicker unto good ; 
O, sacred be the llesh and blood 

To which she links a truth divine ! 

See thou, that countest reason ripe 

In holding by the law within. 

Thou fail not in a world of sin, 
And ev'n for want of such a type. 

XXXIV. 

Mv own dim life shou'd teach me this, 
That life shall live forevermore. 
Else earth is darkness at the core, 

And dust and ashes all that is ; 

This round of green, this orb of flame. 
Fantastic beauty ; such as lurks 
In some wild Poet, when he works 

Without a conscience or an aim. 

What then were Gnd to such as I ? 

' r were hardly worth my while to choose 

Of things all mortal, or to use 
A little patience ere I die ; 

'T were best at once to sink to peace. 
Like birds the charming serpent draws, 
To drop head-foremost in the jaws 

Of vacant darkness, and to cease. 

XXXV. 

Yet if some voice that man could trust 
.Should murmur from the narrow house, 
" The cheeks drop in ; the body bows ; 

Man dies : nor is there hope in dust " : 

Might I not say, " Yet even here. 
But for one hour, O Love, I strive 
To keep so sweet a thing alive "? 

But I should turn mine ears and hear 

The meanings of the homeless sea, 

The sound of streams that sw ift or slow 
Draw down .iEonian hills, and sow 

The dust of continents to be ; 



IN ME MORI A AT. 



And Love would answer with a sigh, 
" The sound of that forgetful shore 
Will change my sweetness more and more, 

Half-dead to know that I shall die." 

O me ! what profits it to put 

An idle case? If Death were seen 
At first as Death, Love had not been, 

Or been in narrowest working shut, 

Mere fellowship of sluggish moods, 

Or in his coarsest Satyr-shape 

Had bruised the herb and crush'd the 
grape, 
And bask'd and batten'd in the woods. 

XXXVI. 

Tho' truths in manhood darkly join, 
Deep-seated in our mystic trame. 
We yield all blessing to the name 

Of Him that made them current coin ; 

For Wisdom dealt with mortal powers, 
Where truth in closest words shall fail, 
When truth embodied in a tale 

Shall enter in at lowly doors. 

And so the Word had hreath, and wrought 
With human hands the creed of creeds 
In loveliness of perfect deeds. 

More strong than all poetic thought ; 

Which he may read that binds the sheaf. 
Or builds the house, or digs the grave. 
And those wild eyes that watch the wave 

In roarings round the coral reef. 

XXXVII. 

Urania speaks with darken'd brow ; 

" Thou pratest here where thou art least ; 

'I'his faith has many a purer priest, 
And many an abler voice than thou. 

" Go down beside thy native rill, 
On thy Parnassus set thy feet. 
And hear thy laurel whisper sweet 

About the ledges of the hill." 

And my Melpomene replies, 

A touch of shame upon her cheek : 
" I am not worthy ev'n to speak 

Of thy prevailing mysteries ; 

" For I am but an earthly Muse, 
And owning but a little art 
To lull with song an aching heart. 

And render human love his dues ; 

" But brooding on the dear one dead. 
And all he said of things divine, 
(And dear to me as sacred wine 

To dying lips is all he said,) 

" I murmur'd, as I came along. 
Of comfort clasp'd in truth reveal'd ; 
And loiter'd in the Master's field. 

And darken'd sanctities with song." 



XXXVIIt. 

With weary steps I loiter on, 
Tho' always under alter'd skies 
The purple from the distance dies, 

My prospect and horizon gone. 

No joy the blowing season gives. 
The herald melodies of spring. 
But in the songs I love to sing 

A doubtful gleam of solace lives. 

If any care for what is here 
Survive in spirits render'd free. 
Then are these songs I sing of thee 

Not all ungrateful to thine ear. 

XXXIX. 

Could we forget the widow'd hour, 
And look on Spirits breathed away. 
As on a maiden in the day 

When first she wears her orange flower 1 

When crown'd with blessing she doth risa 
To take her latest leave of home. 
And hopes and light regrets that come 

Make April of her tender eyes; 

And doubtful joys the father move. 
And tears are on the mother's face. 
As parting with a long embrace 

She enters other realms of love : 

Her oflSce there to rear, to teach. 

Becoming, as is meet and fit, 

A link among the days, to knit 
The generations each with each ; 

And, doubtless, unto thee is given 

A life that bears immortal fruit 

In such great offices as suit 
The full-grown energies of heaven. 

Ay me, the difference I discern ! 
How often shall her old fireside 
Be cheer'd with tidings of the bride. 

How often she herself return, 

And tell them all they would have told, 
And bring her babe, and make her boas^ 
Till even those that miss'd her most 

Shall count new things as dear as old : 

But thou and I have shaken hands. 
Till growing winters lay me low ; 
My paths are in the fields I know. 

And thine in undiscover'd lands. 



Thy spirit ere our fatal loss 

Did ever rise from high to higher ; 
As mounts the heavenward altar-fire. 

As flies the lighter thro' the gross. 

But thou art tum'd to something strange. 
And I have lost the links that bound 
Thy changes ; here upon the ground, 

No more partaker of thy change. 



IN ME MORI AM. 



Deep folly ! yet that this could be, — 
That I could wing my will with might 
To leap the grades of life aud light, 

And flash at once, my friend, to thee : 

For tho' my nature rarely yields 
To that vague fear implied in death ; 
I Nor shudders at the gulfs beneath, 
I The bowlings from forgotten fields : 

> Yet oft when sundown skirts the moor 
J An inner trouble I behold, 
» A spectral doubt which makes me cold, 
That 1 shall be thy mate no more. 

The' following with an upward mind 
The wonders that have cojne to thee, 
Thro' all the secular to-be. 

But evermore a life behind. 



I VEX my heart with fancies dim : 
He still outstrip! me in the race ; 
It was but unity of place 

That made me dream I rank'd with him. 

And so may Place retain us still. 
And he the much-beloved again, 
A lord of large experience, train 

To riper growth the mind and will ; 

And what delights can equal those 
That stir the spirit's inner deeps. 
When one that loves, but knows not, reaps 

A truth from one that loves and knows 1 

XLII. 

If Sleep and Death be truly one. 
And every spirit's folded bloom 
Thro' all its intervital gloom 

In some long trance should slumber on ; 

Unconscious of the sliding hour. 
Bare of the body, might it last, 
And silent traces of the past 

Be all the color of the flower : 

So then were nothing lost to man ; 

So that still garden of the souls 

In many a figured leaf enrolls 
The total world since life began ; 

And love will last as pure and whole 
As when he loved me here in Time, 
And at the spiritual prime 

Rewaken with the dawning soul. 

XLIII. 

How fares it with the happv dead? 

For here the man is more and more ; 

But he forgets the days before 
God shut the doorways of his head. 

The days have vanish'd, tone and tint. 
And yet perhaps the hoarding sense 
Gives out at times (he knows not whence) 

A little flash, a mystic iiint ; 



And in the long harmonious years 

(If Death so taste Lethean springs) 
May some dim touch of earthly things 
Surprise thee ranging with thy peers. 

If such a dreamy touch should fall, 
O turn thee round, resolve the doubt ; 
My guardian angel will speak out 

In that high place, and tell thee all. 

XLIV. 

The baby new to earth and sky. 
What time his tender palm is prest 
Against the circle of the breast. 

Has never thought that " this is I"; 

But as he grows he gathers much. 
And learns the use of " I," and "me," 
And finds " I am not what 1 see. 

And other than the things I touch." 

So rounds he to a separate mind 

From whence clear memory may begin, 
As thro' the frame that binds him in 

His isolation grows defined. 

This use may lie in blood and breath, 
Which else were fruitless of their due, 
Had man to learn himself anew 

Beyond the second birth of Death. 



We ranging down this lower track. 
The path we came by, thorn and flower, 
Is shadovv'd by the growing hour. 

Lest life should fail in looking back. 

So be it : there no shade can last 
In that deep dawn behind the tomb. 
But clear from marge to marge shall bloom 

The eternal landscape of the past : 

A lifelong tract of time reveal'd ; 

The fruitful hours of still increase ; 

Days order'd in a wealthy peace. 
And those five years its richest field. 

O Love, thy province were not large, 
A bounded field, nor stretching far ; 
Look also, Love, a brooding star, 

A rosy warmth from marge to marge. 



That each, who seems a separate whole, 
.Should move his rounds, and fusing all 
The skirts of self again, should fall 

Remerging in the general Soul, 

Is faith as vague as all unsweet : 
Eternal form shall still divide 
The eternal soul from all beside ; 

And I shall know him when we meet : 

And we shall sit at endless feast. 
Enjoying each the other's good : 
What vaster dream can hit tlie mood 

Of Love on earth ? He seeks at least 



IN MEMORIAM. 



Upon the last and sharpest height, 
Before the spirits fade away, 
Some landing-place, to clasp and say, 

" Farewell ! We lose ourselves in light." 

XLVII. 

If these brief lays, of Sorrow bom, 
Were taken to be such as closed 
Grave doubts and answers here proposed. 

Then these were such as men might scorn : 

Her care is not to part and prove ; 
She takes, when harsher moods remit. 
What slender shade of doubt may flit. 

And makes it vassal unto love : 

And hence, indeed, she sports with words, 
But belter serves a wholesome law, 
And holds it sin and shame to draw 

The deepest measure from the chords : 

Nor dare she trust a larger lay, 
But rather loosens from the lip 
Short swallow-fiights of song, that dip 

Their wings in tears, and skim away. 

XLVIII. 

From art, from nature, from the schools, 
Let random influences glance, 
Like light in many a shiver'd lance 

That breaks about the dappled pools : 

The lightest wave of thought shall lisp. 
The" fancy's tenderest eddy wreathe, 
The slightest air of song shall breathe 

To make the sullen surface crisp. 

And look thy look, and go thy way, 

Hut blame not thou the winds that make 
The seeming wanton ripple break, 

The tenderpencil'd shadow play. 

Beneath all fancied hopes and fears, 
Ay me ! the sorrow deepens down, 
Whose muffled motions blindly diown 

The bases of my life in tears. 

XLIX. 

Be near me when my light is low, 
When the blood creeps,and the nerves prick 
And tingle ; and the heart is sick, 

And all tlie wheels of Being slow. 

Be near me when the sensuous frame 

Is rack'd with pangs that conquer trust : 
And Time, a maniac scattering dust, 

And Life, a Fury slinging flame. 

Be near me when my faith is dry. 
And men the flies of latterspring. 
That lay their eggs, and sting and sing. 

And weave their petty cells and die. 

Be near me when I fade away, 

To point the term of human strife, 
And on the low dark verge of life 

The twilight of eternal day. 



i^ 



Do we indeed desire the dead 

Should still be near us at our side? 
Is there no baseness we would hide? 

No inner vileness that we dread ? 

Shall he for whose applause I strove, 
I had such reverence for his blame. 
See with clear eye some hidden shame. 

And I be lessen'd in his love ? 

I wrong the grave with fears untrue : 
Shall love be blamed for want of faith ? 
There must be wisdom with great Death ; 

The dead .shall look me thro' and thro'. 

Be near us when we climb or fall : 
Ye watch, like God, the rolling hours 
With larger other eyes than ours, 

To make allowance for us all. 



I CANNOT love thee as I ought, 

For love reflects the thing beloved ; 
My words are only words, and moved 

Upon the topmost froth of thought. 

" Yet blame not thou thy plaintive song," 
The Spirit of true love replied ; 
" Thou canst not move me from thy side. 

Nor human frailty do me wrong. 

"What keeps a spirit wholly true 

To that ideal which he bears? 

What record ? not the sinless years 
That breathed beneath the Syrian blue : 

" So fret not, like an idle girl, 
'I'hat life is dash'd with flecks of sin, 
Abide : thy wealth is gather'd in. 

When Time hath sunder'd shell from pearl.' 



How many a father have I seen, 
A sober man among his boys. 
Whose youth w.as full of foolish noise. 

Who wears his manhood hale and green : 

And dare we to this fancy give, 

That had the wild-oat not been sown. 
The soil, left barren, scarce had grown 

The grain by which a man may live ? 

O, if we held the doctrine sound 
For life outliving heats of youth. 
Yet who would preach it as a truth 

To those that eddy round and round? 

Hold thou the good ; define it well : 

For fear divine Philosophy 

Should push beyond lier mark, and be 
Procuress to the Lords of Hell. 



O YET we trust that somehovi' good 
Will be the final ror.l c,f i'.l. 
To pangs of nature, sins cf will. 

Defects of doubt, and taints cf blood; 



IN MEMORIAM. 



That nothing walks with aimless feet : 
That not one life shall be destroy'd, 
Or cast as rubbish to the void. 

When God hath made the pile complete ; 

That not a worm is cloven in vain ; 
That not a moth with vain desire 
Is shrivell'd in a fruitless fire, 

Or but subserves another's gain. 

Behold we know notanytliing ; 
I can but trust that good shall fall 
At last — far olT — at last, to all, 

And every winter change to spring. 

So runs my dream : but what am I } 
An infant crying in the night : 
An infant crying for the light : 

And with no language but a cry. 



The wish, that of the living whole 
No life may fail beyond the grave. 
Derives it not from what we have 

The likest God within the soul? 

Are God and Nature then at strife, 
That Nature lends such evil dreams? 
So careful of the type she seems, 

So careless of the single life ; 

That I, considering everywhere 
Her secret meaning in her deeds. 
And finding that of fifty seeds 

She often brings but one to bear, 

I falter where I firmly trod, 
And falling with my weight of cares 
Ui)on the great world's altar-stairs 

T hat slope thro' darkness up to God, 

I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope 
And gather dust and chaff, and call ' 
To what I feel is Lord of all. 

And faintly trust the larger hope. 



' So careful of the type ? " but no. 
From scarped cliff and quarried stone 
She cries, " A thousand types are gone 
I care for nothing, all shall go. 

" Thou makest thine appeal to me : 
I bring to life, 1 bring to death : ' 
The spint does but mean the breath - 

I know no more." And he, shall he, 

Man, her last work, who seem'd so fair. 

Such splendid purpose in his eyes, 
t,7u '." '■?"''' ''^^ psalm to wintry skies, 
Who built him fanes of fruitless prayer. 

Who trusted God was love indeed. 
And love Creation's final law, — 
7"ho' Nature, red in tooth and claw 

With ravin, sliriek'd agaiust his creed, — 



Who loved, who suffer'd countless ills. 
Who battled for the True, the Just 
He blown about the desert dust, ' 

Orseal'd within the iron hills? 

No more ? A monster then, a dreara, 
A discord. Dragons of the prime, 
'^■''at tare each other in their slime. 

Were mellow music match'd with hiic 

O life as futile, then, as frail ! 
O lor thy voice to sooth and bless I 
What hope of answer, or redress? 

Behind the veil, behind the veil. 



Pe'VCE ; come away : the song of woe 
Is after all an eartlily song : 
Peace ; come awav : we do him wroitf 

To sing so wildly : let us go. 

Come : let us go : your cheeks are pale; 
But half my life 1 leave behind : 
Methinks my friend is richlv shrined , 

But I shall pass ; my work will fail. 

Yet in these ears, till hearing dies. 
One set slow bell will seem to toll 
The passing of the sweetest soul 

That ever look'd with huinau eyes. 

I hear it now, and o'er and o'er, 

Eternal greetings to the dead; 

And "Ave, Ave, Ave," said, 
"Adieu, adieu," foreverraore. 

LVII. 

In those sad words 1 took farewell: 
Like echoes in sepulchral halls, 
As drop by drop the water falls 

In vaults and catacombs, they fell ; 

And, falling, idly broke the peace 
Of hearts that beat from day to day. 
Half conscious of their dying clay. 

And those cold crypts where they shall cease. 

The liigh Muse answer'd: "Wherefor.? 
giieve 

Thy brethren with a fruitless tear ? 

Abide a little longer here. 
And thou shalt take a nobler leave." 



LVIII. 

O Sorrow, wilt thou live with me, 
No casual mistress, but a wife, 
My bosom-friend and half of life; 

As 1 confess it needs must be ; 

O Sorrow, wilt thou rule my blood. 
Be sometimes lovelv like a bride. 
And put thy harsher moods aside. 

If thou wilt have me wise and good. 

My centred pa-:sion cannot move, 
Nor will it lessen from to-day ; 
But I '11 have leave at times to play 
" As with the creature of my love ; 



124 



IN MEMORIAM. 



And set tliee forth, for thou art mine, 
With so much hope for years to come, 
That, howsoe'er I know thee, some 

Could hardly tell wliat name were thine. 



He past : a soul of nobler tone : 
My spirit loved and loves him yet, 
Like some poor girl whose heart is set 

On one whose rank exceeds her own. 

He mixing with his proper sphere. 
She finds the baseness of her lot. 
Half jealous of she knows not what, 

And envying all that meet him there. 

The little village looks forlorn ; 
She sighs amid her narrow days. 
Moving about the household ways. 

In that dark house where she was born. 

The foolish neighbors come and go, 
And tease her till the day draws by : 
At night she weeps, " How vain am I ! 

How should he love a thing so low ? " 



If, In thy second state sublime. 

Thy ransom'd reason change replies 
With all the circle of the wise, 

The perfect tlower of human time ; 

And if thou cast thine eyes below, 
How dimly character'd and slight. 
How dwart"'d a growth of cold and night. 

How blanch'd with darkness must I grow ! 

Yet turn thee to the doubtful shove, 

Where thy first form was made a man ; 
I loved thee, Spirit, and love, nor can 

The soul of Shakespeare love thee more. 



Tho' if an ej'e that 's downward cast 

Could make thee somewhat blench or fail. 
Then be my love an idle tale. 

And fading legend of the past ; 

And thou, as one that once declined 
When he was little more than boy. 
On some unworthy heart with joy. 

But lives to wed an equal mind ; 

And breathes a novel world, the while 

His other ]iassion wholly dies, 

Or in the light of deeper eyes 
Is matter for a flying smile. 



Yet pity for a horse o'er-driven. 
And love in which my hound has part. 
Can hnng no weight upon my heart 

In its assumpticvns up to heaven ; 

And I am so much more than these. 
As thou, perchance, art more than I, 
And yet I spare them sympathy. 

And I would set their pains at ease. 



4- 



So mayst thou watch me where I weep, 
As, unto vaster motions bound. 
The circuits of thine orbit round 

A higher height, a deeper deep. 



Dost thou look back on what hath been. 
As some divinely gifted man, 
Whose life in low estate began 

And on a simple village green ; 

Who breaks his birth's invidious bar. 
And grasps the skirts of happy chance. 
And breasts the blows of circumstance, 

And grapples with his evil star ; 

Who makes by force his merit known, 
And lives to clutch the golden keys, 
To mould a mighty state's decrees. 

And shape the whisper of the throne ; 

And moving up from high to higher, 
Becomes on Fortune's crowning slope 
The pillar of a people's hope, 

The centre of a world's desire ; 

Yet feels, as in a pensive dream. 
When all his active powers are still, 
A distant dearness in the hill, 

A secret sweetness in the stream, 

The limit of his narrower fate, 
While yet beside its vocal springs 
He play'd at counsellors and kings. 

With one that was his earliest mate ; 

Who ploughs with pain his native lea 
And reaps the labor of his hands, 
Or in the furrow musing stands : 

" Does my old friend remember me ? " 



Sweet soul, do with me as thou wilt ; 

I lull a fancy trouble-tost 

With " Love 's too precious to be lost, 
A little grain shall not be spilt." 

And in that solace can I sing. 
Till out of painful phases wrought 
There flutters up a happy thought, 

Self-balanced on a lightsome wing : 

Since we deserved the name of friends. 
And thine effect so lives in me, 
A part of mine may live in thee. 

And move thee on to noble ends. 



You thought my heart too far diseased ; 
You wonder when my fancies play 
To find me gay among the gay, 

Like one with any trifle pleased. 

The shade by which my life was crost. 
Which makes a desert in the mind. 
Has made me kindly with my kind. 

And like to liim whose sight is lost ; 



IN ME MORI AM. 



Whose feet are guided thro' the land, 
Whose jest anionj» his friends is free. 
Who takes the children on his knee. 

And winds their curls about his hand : 

He plays with threads, he beats his chair 
For pastime, dreaming of the sky; 
His mner day can never die. 

His tiight of loss is always there. 



When on my bed the moonlight falls, 
I know that in thy place of rest. 
By that broad water of the west. 

There comes a glory on the walls : 

Thy marble bright in dark appears. 

As slowly steals a silver flame 

Along the letters of thy name. 
And o'er the number of thy years. 

The mystic glory swims away : 

From off my bed the moonlight dies ; 
And, closing eaves of wearied eyes, 

I sleep till dusk is dipt in gray : 

And then I know the mist is drawn 
A lucid veil from coast to coast. 
And in the dark church, like a ghost, 

Thy tablet glimmers to the dawn. 

Lxvn. 

When in the down I sink my head, 

Sleep, Death's twin-brother, times my 

breath ; 
Sleep, Death's twin-brother, knows not 
Death, 
Nor can I dream of thee as dead : 

I walk as ere I walk'd forlorn. 
When all our path was fresh with dew. 
And all the bugle breezes blew 

Reveillee to the breaking morn. 

But what is this? I turn about, 
I find a trouble in thine eye. 
Which makes me sad, I know not why, 

Nor can my dream resolve the doubt : 

But ere the lark hath left the lea 
I wake, and I discern the truth ; 
It is the trouble of my youth 

That foolish sleep transfers to thee. 

LXVIII. 

I dre.am'd there would be Spring no more. 
That Nature's ancient power was lost : 
The streets were black with smoke and 
frost. 

They chatter'd trifles at the door : 

I wander'd from the noisy town, 

I found a wood with thorny boughs : 
I took the thorns to bind my brows, 

I wore them like a civic crown : 

I met with scoffs, I met with scorns 
From youth and babe and hoary hairs : 



They call'd me in the public squares 
The fool that wears a crown of thorns : 

They call'd me fool, they call'd me child : 
I fi>und an angel of the night ; 
The voice was low, the look was bright ; 

He look'd upon my crown and smiled : 

He reach'd the glory of a hand. 
That seem'd to touch it into leaf: 
The voice was not the voice of grief; 

The words were hard to understand. 



I CANNOT see the features right. 
When on the gloom I strive to paint 
The face I know ; the hues are faint 

And mix with hollow masks of night ; 

Cloud-towers by ghostly masons wrought, 
A gulf that ever shuts and gapes, 
A hand that points and palled shapes 

In shadowy thoroughfares of thought ; 

And crowds that stream from yawning doors. 
And shoals of pucker'd faces drive ; 
Dark bulks that tumble half alive. 

And lazy lengths on boundless shores : 

Till all at once beyond the will 

1 hear a wizard music roll. 

And thro' a lattice on the soul 
Looks thy fair face and makes it still. 



Sleep, kinsman thou to death and trance 
And madness, thou hast forged at last 
A night-long Present of the Past 

In which we went thro' summer France. 

Hadst thou such credit with the soul ? 
Then bring an opiate trebly strong, 
Drug down the blindfold sense of wrong 

That so my pleasure may be whole ; 

While now we talk as once we talk'd 
Of men and minds, the dust of change. 
The days that grow to something strange. 

In walking as of old we walk'd 

Beside the river's wooded reach. 
The fortress, and the mountain ridge. 
The cataract flashing from the bridge, 

The breaker breaking on the beach. 



Risest thou thus, dim dawn, again. 
And howlest, issuing out of night. 
With blasts that blow the poplar white. 

And lash with storm the streaming pane } 

Day, when my crown'd estate begun 
To pine in that reverse of doom. 
Which sicken'd every living bloom, 

And blurr'd the splendor of the sun ; 

Who usherest in the dolorous hour 
With thy quick tears that make the rose 



126 



IN MEMORIAM. 



Pull sideways, and the daisy close 
Her crimson fringes to the shower ; 

Who might'st have heaved a windlass flame 
Up the deep East, or, whispering, play'd 
A chequer-work of beam and shade 

Along the hills, yet looked the same, 

As wan, as chill, as wild as now ; 

Day, mark'd as with some hideous crime 
When the dark hand struck down thro' 
time. 

And cancell'd nature's best : but thou, 

Lift as thou mayst thy burthen'd brows 
Thro' clouds that drench the morning 

star, 
And whirl the ungarner'd sheaf afar. 

And sow the sky with flying boughs, 

And up thy vault with roaring sound 
Climb thy thick noon, disastrous day; 
Touch thy dull goal of joyless gray. 

And hide thy shame beneath the ground. 



So many worlds, so much to do. 
So little done, such things to be. 
How know I what had need of thee. 

For thou wert strong as thou wert true ? 

The fame is quench'd that I foresaw. 

The head hath niiss'd an earthly wreath : 
I curse not nature, no, nor death ; 

For nothing is that errs from law. 

We pass ; the path that each man trod 
Is dim, or will be dim, with weeds : 
What fame is left for human deeds 

In endless age? It rests with God. 

O hollow wraith of dying fame, 
Fade wholly, while the soul exults, 
And self-infolds the large results 

Of force that would have forged a name. 

LXXIII. 

As sometimes in a dead man's face. 
To those that watch it more and more, 
A likeness, hardly seen before, 

Comes out — to some one of his race : 

So, dearest, now thy brows are cold, 
I see thee what thou art, and know 
Thy likeness to the wise below. 

Thy kindred with the great of old. 

But there is more than I can see. 
And what I see I leave unsaid, 
Nor speak it, knowing Death has made 

His darkness beautiful with thee. 



I LEAVK thy praises unexpress'd 
In verse that brings myself relief. 
And by the measure of my grief 

I leave thy greatness to be guess'd ; 



What practice howso'er expert 
In fitting aptest words to things. 
Or voice the richest-toned that sings. 

Hath power to give thee as thou wert ? 

I care not in these fading days 
To raise a cry that lasts not long. 
And round thee with the breeze of song 

To stir a little dust of praise. 

Thy leaf has perish'd in the preen. 

And, while we breathe beneath the sun, 
The world which credits what is done 

Is cold to all that might have been. 

So here shall silence guard thy fame ; 
Dut somewhere, out of human view, 
Whate'er thy hands are set to do 

Is wrought with tumult of acclaim. 



Take wings of fancy, and ascend. 
And in a moment set thy face 
Where all the starry heavens of space 

Are sharpen'd to a need.e's end ; 

Take wings of foresight ; lighten thro' 
'I'he secular abyss to come. 
And lo, thy deepest lays are dumb 

Before the mouldering of a yew ; 

And if the matin songs, that woke 
The darkness of our planet, last, 
I'hine own shall wither in the vast. 

Ere half the lifetime of an oak. 

Ere these, have clothed their branchy boweia 
With fifty Mays, thy songs are vain ; 
And what are they when these remain 

The ruin'd shells of hollow towers? 

LXXVI. 

What hope is here for modern rhyme 
'I'o him who turns a musing eye 
On songs, and deeds, and lives, that lie 

Foreshorteu'd in the tract of time ? 

These mortal lullabies of pain 
May bind a book, may line a box. 
May serve to curl a maiden's locks ; 

Or when a thousand moons shall wane 

A man upon a stall may find. 

And, passing, turn the page that tells 
A grief, then changed to something else^ 

Sung" by a long-forgotten mind. 

But what of that? My darken'd ways 
Shall ring with music all the same ; 
To breathe my loss is more than lame. 

To utter love more sweet than praise. 



Again at Christmas did we weave 

The holly round the Christm.as hearth ; 
The silent snow po'isess'd the earth, 

And calmly fell our Christmas-eve : 



IN MEMORIAM. 



The yule-cloe; sparkled keen with frost, 
No wing of wind the region swept, 
But over all things brooding slept 

The quiet sense of something lost. 

As in the winters left behind. 

Again our ancient games had place, 
The mimic picture's breathing giace. 

And dance and song and hoodman-blind. 

Wlio show'd a token of distress? 
No single tear, no mark of pain : 

sorrow, then can sorrow wane? 
O grief, can grief be changed to less ? 

O last regret, regret can die ! 

No, — mixt with all this mystic frame, 
Her deep relations are the same. 

But with long use her tears are dry. 

LX.WIII. 

" More than my brothers are to me," — 
Let this not vex thee, noble heart ! 

1 know thee of what force thou art 
To hold the costliest love in fee. 

But thou and I are one in kind. 
As moulded like in nature's mint ; 
And hill and wood and field did print 

The same sweet forms in either mind. 

For us the same cold streamlet curl'd 
Thro' all his eddying coves ; the same 
All winds that roam the twilight came 

In whispers of the beauteous world. 

At one dear knee we proflfer'd vows. 
One lesson from one book we learn'd, 
Ere childhood's flaxen ringlet turn'd 

To black and brown on kindred brows. 

And so my wealth resembles thine. 
But he was rich where I was poor. 
And he supplied my want the more 

As his unlikeness fitted mine. 

LXXIX. 

If any vague desire should rise. 
That holy Death ere Arthur died 
Had moved me kindly from his side, 

And drojit the dust on tearless eyes ; 

Then fancy shapes, as fancy can, 
The grief my loss in him had wrought, 
A grief as deep as life or thought, 

But stay'd in peace with God and man. 

I make a picture in the brain ; 

I hear the sentence that he speaks ; 

He bears the burthen of the weeks-' 
But turns his burthen into gain. 

His credit thus shall set me free; 
And, influence-rich to soothe and save, 
Unused example from the grave 

Reach out dead hands tu comfort me. 



I.XXX. 

Cotu.D I have said while he was here, 
" My love shall now no further range ; 
There cannot come a mellower change. 

For now is love mature in ear." 

Love, then, had hope of richer store : 
What end is here to my complaint ? 
'I'his haunting whispei makes me faint, 

" More years had made me love thee more." 

But Death returns an answer sweet : 
" My sudden frost was sudden gain, 
And gave all ripeness to the grain 

It might liave drawn from after-heat." 

LXXXI. 

I WAGE not any feud with Death 
For changes wrought on form and face ; 
No lower life that earth's embrace 

May breed with him can fright my faith. 

Eternal process moving on, 
From state to state the spirit walks ; 
And these are but the shatter'd stalks. 

Or ruin'd chrysalis of one. 

Nor blame I Death, because he bare 
The use of virtue out of earth : 
I know transplanted human worth 

Will bloom to profit, otherwhere. 

For this alone on Death I wreak 
The wrath that gamers in my heart; 
He put our lives so far apart 

We cannot hear each other speak. 

LXXXI I. 

Dip down upon the northern shore, 
O sweet new-year, delaying long : 
Thou doest expectant nature wrong ; 

Delaying long, delay no more. 

What stays thee from the clouded noons, 

Thy sweetness from its proper place? 
Can trouble live with April days. 
Or sadness in the summer moons? 

Bring orchis, bring the foxglove spire, 
The little speedwell's darling blue. 
Deep tulips dash'd with fiery dew, 

Laburnums, dropping-wells of fire. 

thou, new-year, delaying long, 
Delayest the sorrow in my blood. 
That longs to burst a frozen bud. 

And flood a fresher throat with song. 

Lxxxrii. 

When I contemplate all alone 
The life that had been thine below. 
And fix my thoughts on all the glow 

To which thy crescent would have grown* 

1 see thee sitting crown'd with good, 
A central warmth diffusing bliss 



128 



iN MEMORIAM. 



In glance and smile, and clasp and kiss, 
On all the branches of thy blood ; 

Thy blood, my friend, and partly mine ; 
For now the day was drawing on 
When thou shouldst link thy life with one 

Of mine own house, and boys of thine 

Had babbled "Uncle " on my knee ; 
But that remorseless iron hour 
Made cypress of her orange-flower, 

Despair of Hope, and earth of thee. 

I seem to meet their least desire. 
To clap their cheeks, to call them mine. 
1 see their unborn faces shine 

Beside the never-lighted fire. 

I see myself an honor'd guest, 
'i'hy partner in the flowery walk 
Of letters, genial table-talk. 

Or deep dispute, and graceful jest ; 

While now thy prosperous labor fills 
The lips of men with honest praise, 
And sun by sun the happy daj's 

Descend below the golden hills 

With promise of a morn as fair ; 

And all the train of bounteous hours 
Conduct by paths of growing powers 

To reverence and the silver hair ; 

Till slowly worn her earthly robe. 
Her lavish mission richly wrought. 
Leaving great legacies of thought. 

Thy spirit should fail from off the globe ; 

What time mine own might also flee. 
As link'd with thine in love and fate. 
And, hovering o'er the dolorous strait 

To the other shore, involved in thee, 

Arrive at last the blessed goal, 
And He that died in Holy Land 
Would reach us out the shining hand, 

And take us as a single soul. 

What reed was that on which I leant? 
Ah, backward fancy, wherefore wake 
The old bitterness again, and break 

The low beginnings of content ? 

I,XXXIV. 

Tms truth came borne with bier and pall, 
I felt it, when I sorrowed most, 
'1' is better to have loved and lost. 

Than never to have loved at all 

O true in word, and tried in deed. 
Demanding, so to bring relief 
To this which is our common grief, 

What kind of life is that I lead ; 

And whether trust in things above 
Be dimm'd of sorrow or sustain'd ; 
And whether love for him have drain'd 

My capabilities of love : 



Your words have virtue such as draws 
A faithful answer from the breast. 
Thro' light repioaches, half exprest, 

And loyal unto kindly laws. 

My blood an even tenor kept. 
Till on mine ear this message falls, 
That in Vienna's fatal walls 

God's finger touch'd him, and he slept. 

The great Intelligences fair 

That range above our mortal state. 
In circle round the blessed gate. 

Received and gave him welcome there ; 

And led him thro' the blissful climes. 
And show'd him in the fountain fresh 
All knowledge that the sons of flesh 

Shall gather in the cycled times. 

But I remain'd, whose hopes were dim. 
Whose life, whose thoughts were littla 

worth. 
To wander on a darken'd earth. 

Where all things round me breathed of him. 

O friendship, equal-poised control, 
O heart, with kindliest motion warm, 

sacred essence, other form, 
O solemn ghost, O crowned soul ! 

Yet none could better know than I, 
How much of act at human hands 
The sense of human will demands. 

By which we dare to live or die. 

Whatever way my days decline, 

1 felt and feel, tho' left alone. 
His being working in mine own, 

The footsteps of his life in mine ; 

A life that all the Muses deck'd 

With gifts of grace, that might express 
All-comprehensive tenderness. 

All -subtilizing intellect : 

And so my passion hath not swerved 
To works of weakness, but I find 
An image comforting the mind. 

And in my grief a strength reserved. 

Likewise the imaginative woe. 
That loved to handle spiritual strife, 
Diffused the shock thro' all my life, 

But in the present broke the blow. 

My pulses therefore beat again 
For other friends that once I met ; 
Nor can it suit me to forget 

The mighty hopes that make us men. 

I woo your love : I count it crime 

To mourn for any overmuch ; 

I, the divided half of such 
A friendship as had master'd Time ; 

Which masters Time indeed, and is 
Eternal, separate from fears ; 



IN ME MORI AM. 



129 



The all-assuming mrnths and years 
Can take no part away from this : 

But Summer on the steaming floods, 
And Spring that swells the narrow brooks, 
And Autumn, with a noise of rooks, 

That gather in the waning woods. 

And every pulse of wind and wave 
Recalls, in change of light or gloom, 
My old affection of the tomb, 

And my prime passion in the grave : 

My old affection of the tomb, 

A part of stillness, yearns to speak : 
" Arise, and get thee forth and seek 

A friendship for the years to come. 

" I watch thee from the quiet shore ; 

Thy spirit up to mine can reach ; 

But in dear words of human speech 
We two communicate no more." 

And I, " Can clouds of nature stain 
The starry clearness of the free ? 
How is it ? Canst thou feel for me 

Some painless sympathy with pain ? " 

And lightly does the whisper fall : 
" 'T is hard for thee to fathom this : 
I triumph in conclusive bliss, 

And that serene result of all." 

So hold I commerce with the dead ; 

Or so methinks the dead would say ; 

Or so shall grief with symbols play, 
And pining life be fancy-fed. 

Now looking to some settled end. 

That these things pass, and I shall prova 
A meeting somewhere, love with lo/e, 

I crave your pardon, O my friend ; 

If not so fresh, with love as true, 
I, clasping brother-hands, aver 
I could not, if I would, transfer 

The whole I felt for him to you. 

For which be they that hold ajiart 
The promise of the golden hours? 
First love, first friendship, equal powers, 

That marry with the virgin heart. 

Still mine, that cannot but deplore. 
That beats within a lonely place. 
That yet remembers his embrace, 

But at his footstep leaps no more. 

My heart, tho' widow'd, may not rest 
Quite in the love of what is gone. 
But seeks to beat in time with one 

That warms another living breast. 

Ah, take the imperfect gift I bring, 
I Knowing the primrose yet is dear, 
The primrose of the later year. 
As not unlike to that of Spring. 



LXXXV. 

Sweet afler showers, ambrosial air. 
That rollest from the gorgeous gloom 
Of evening over brake and bloom 

And meadow, slowly breathing bare 

The round of space, and rapt below 
Thro' all the dewy-tassell'd wood. 
And shadowing down the horned flood 

In ripples, fan my brows and blow 

The fever from my cheek, and sigh 
The full new life that feeds thy breath 
Throughout my frame, till Doubt and 
Death, 

111 brethren let the fancy fly 

From belt to belt of crimson seas 
On leagues of odor streaming far, 
To where in yonder orient star 

A hundred spirits whisper " Peace." 

LXXXVI 

I PAST beside the reverend walls 
In which of old I wore the gown ; 
I roved at random thro' the town. 

And saw the tumult of the halls; 

And heard once more in college fanes 
The storm their high-built organs make. 
And thunder-musif, rolling, shake 

The prophets blazon'd on the panes ; 

And caught once more the distarrt shout, 
The measured pulse of racing oars 
Among the willows ; paced the shores 

And many a bridge, and all about 

The same gray flats again, and felt 
The same, but not the same ; and last 
Up that long walk of limes I past 

To see the rooms in which he dwelt. 

Another name was on the door : 
I linger'd ; all within was noise 
Of songs, and clapping hands, and boys 

That crash'd the glass and beat the floor ; 

Where once we held debate, a band 
Of youthful friends, on mind and art, 
And labor, and the changing mart, 

And all the framework of the land ; 

When one would aim an arrow fair. 
But send it slackly from the string; 
And one would pierce an outer ring. 

And one an inner, here and there ; 

And last the master-bowman, he 

Would cleave the mark. A willing ear 
We lent him. Who, but hung to hear 

The rapt oration flowing free 

From point to point, with power and grace 
And music in the bounds of law. 
To those conclusions when we saw 

The God within him light his face. 



tys 



IN ME MORI AM. 



And seem to lift the form, and glow 

In azure orbits heavenly-wise ; 

And over those ethereal eyes 
The bar of Michael Angelo. 

LXXXVII. 

Wild bird, whose warble, liquid sweet, 
Rings Eden thro' the budded quicks, 

tell me where the senses mix, 
O tell me where the passions meet. 

Whence radiate : fierce extremes employ 
Thy spirits in the darkening leaf. 
And in the midmost heart of grief 

Thy passion clasps a secret joy : 

And I — my harp would prelude woe — 

1 cannot all command the strings : 
The glory of the sum of things 

Will flash along the chords and go. 

LXXXVIII. 

Witch-elms that counterchange the floor 
C)f this flat lawn with dusk and bright ; 
And thou, with all thy breadth and height 

Of foliage, towering sycamore ; 

How often, hither wandering down, 
My Arthur found your shadows fair, 
And shook to all the liberal air 

The dust and din and steam of town : 

He brought an eye for all he saw ; 

He mixt in all our simple sports; 

They pleased him, fresh from broiling 
courts 
And dusty purlieus of the law. 

O joy to him in this retreat, 
Inimantled in ambrosial dark. 
To drink the cooler air, and mark 

The landscape winking thro' the heat ; 

O sound to rout the brood of cares, 
The sweep of scythe in morning dew. 
The gust that round the garden flew. 

And tumbled half the mellowing pears I 

O bliss, when all in circle drawn 
About him, heart and ear were fed 
To hear him, as he lay and read 

The Tuscan poet on the lawn ; 

Or in the all-golden afternoon 
A guest, or happy sister, sung. 
Or here she brought the harp and flung 

A ballad to the brightening moon : 

Nor less it pleased in livelier moods. 
Beyond the bounding hill to stray. 
And break the livelong summer day 

With banquet in the distant woods ; 

Whereat we glanced from theme to theme, 
Discuss'd the books to love or hate. 
Or touch'd the changes of the state, 

Or threaded some Socratic dream ; 



But if I praised the busy town, 
He loved to rail against it still, 
For " ground in yonder social mill. 

We rub each other's angles down, 

"And merge," he said, " in form and gloss 
The picturesque of man and man." 
We talk'd : the stream beneath us ran, 

The wine-flask lying couch'd in moss, 

Or cooi'd within the glooming wave ; 

And last, returning from afar. 

Before the crimson-circled star 
Had fall'n into her father's grave, 

And brushing ankle-deep in flowers, 
We heard, behind the woodbine veil 
The milk that bubbled in the pail. 

And buzzings of the honeyed hours. 

LXXXIX. 

He tasted love with half his mind. 
Nor ever drank the inviolate spring 
Where nighest heaven, who first could fling 

This bitter seed among mankind ; 

That could the dead, whose dying eyes 
Were closed with wail, resume their life. 
They would but find in child and wife 

An iron welcome when they rise : 

'T was well, indeed, when warm with wine, 
To pledge them with a kindly tear. 
To talk them o'er, to wish them here, 

To count their memories half divine ; 

But if they came who passed away. 
Behold their brides in other hands ; 
The hard heir strides about their lands. 

And will not yield them for a day. 

Yea, tho' their sons were none of these. 
Not less the yet-loved sire would make 
Confusion wor=e than death, and shake 

The pillars of domestic peace. 

Ah dear, but come thou back to me : 

Whatever change the years have wroughlj 
I find not yet one lonely thought 

That cries agaiust my wish for thee. 



When rosy plumelets tuft the larch. 
And rarely pipes the mounted thrush; 
Or underneath the barren bush 

Flits by the sea-blue bird of March ; 

Come, wear the form by which I know 
Thy spirit in time amonp thy peers ; 
The hope of luiaccomphsh'd years 

Be large and lucid round thy brow. 

When summer's hourly- mellowing chang» 
May breathe, with many roses sweet 
Upon the thousand waves of wheat. 

That ripple round the lonely grange ; 



IN MEMORTAM. 



Come : not in walches of the night, 

But where the sunbeam broodeth warm, 
Come, beauteous in thine after form, 

And like a finer hght in light, 
xci. 

If any vision should reveal 
Thy likeness, I might count it vain, 
As but the canker of the brain ; 

Yea, iho' it spake and made appeal 

To chances where our lots were cast 

Together in the days behind. 

I might but say, I hear a wind 
Of memory murmuring the past. 

Yea, tho' it spake and bared to view 
A fact within the coming year ; 
And tho' the months, revolving near, 

Should prove the phantom-warning true, 

They might not seem thy prophecies, 
But spiritual presentiments. 
And such refraction of events 

As often rises ere they rise. 



I SHALL not see thee. Dare I say 
No spirit ever brake the band 
That stays him from the native land. 

Where first he walk'd when claspt in clay ? 

No visual shade of some one lost, 
But he, the Spirit himself, may come 
Where all the nerve of sense is numb ; 

Spirit to Spirit, Ghost to Ghost. 

O, therefore from thy sightless range 
With gods in unconjectured bliss, 
O, from the distance of the abyss 

Of tenfold-complicated change. 

Descend, and touch, and enter ; hear 
The wish too strong for words to name ; 
That in this blindness of the frame 

My Ghost may feel that thine is near. 

xciir. 
How pure at heart and sound in head. 
With what divine affections bold. 
Should be the man whose thought would 
hold 
An hour's communion with the dead. 

In vain shalt thou, or any, call 
The spirits from their golden day. 
Except, like them, thou too canst say, 

My spirit is at peace with all. 

They haunt the silence of the breast. 
Imaginations calm and fair. 
The memory like a cloudless air. 

The conscience as a sea at rest : 

But when the heart is full of din. 
And doubt beside the portal waits. 
They can but listen at the gates. 

And hear the household jar within. 



XCI v. 
By night we linger'd on the lawn, 

For underfoot the herb was dry ; 

And genial warmth ; and o'er the sky 
The silvery haze of summer drawn ; 

And calm that let the tapers burn 
Unwavering : not a cricket chirr'd : 
The brook alone far-off was heard, 

And on the board the fluttering urn : 

And bats went round in fragrant skies, 
And wheel'd or lit the filmy shapes 
That haunt the dusk, with ermine capes 

And woolly breasts and beaded eyes ; 

While now we sang old songs that peal'd 
From knoll to knoll, where, couch'd at 

ease. 
The white kine glimmer'd, and the trees 

Laid their dark arms about the field. 

But when those others, one by one. 
Withdrew themselves from me and night. 
And in the house light after light 

Went out, and I was all alone, 

A hunger seized my heart ; I read 
Of that glad year that once had been. 
In those fall'n leaves which kept their 
green. 

The noble letters of the dead : 

And strangely on the silence broke 
The silent-speaking words, and strange 
Was love's dumb cry defying change 

To test his worth ; and strangely spoke 

The faith, the vigor, bold to dwell 

On doubts that drive the coward back. 
And keen thro' wordy snares to track 

.Suggestion to her inmost cell. 

So word by word, and line by line, 

The dead man touch'd me from th<J past. 
And all at once it seem'd at last 

His living soul was flash'd on mine, 

And mine in his was wound, and whirl'd 
About empyreal heights of thought. 
And came on that which is, and caught 

The deep pulsations of the world, 

yEnnian music measuring out 

riie steps of Time, the shocks of Chance. 

The blows of Death. At length my tranca 
Was cancell'd, stricken thro' with doubt. 

Vague words ! but ah, how hard to frame 
In matter-moulded forms of speech. 
Or ev'n for intellect to reach 

Thro' memory that which I became : 

Till now the doubtful dusk reveal'd 

The knoll once more where, couch'd a( 

ease, 
The white kine glimmer'd, and the treer 

Laid their dark arms about the field : 



132 



IN MEMORIAM. 



And, suck'd from out the distant gloom, 
A breeze began to tremble o'er 
'I'he large leaves of the sycamore, 

And fluctuate all the still perfume. 

And gathering freshlier overhead, 

Rock'd the full-foliaged elms, and swung 
The heavy-folded rose, and tliuig 

The lilies to and fro, and said, 

" The dawn, the dawn," and died away ; 
And East and West, without a breath, 
Mixt their dim lights, like life and death. 

To broaden into boundless day. 



You say, but with no touch of scorn. 

Sweet-hearted, you, whose light-blue eyes 
Are tender over drowning flies, 

You tell me, doubt is Devil-born. 

1 know not : one indeed I knew 
In many a subtle question versed. 
Who touch'd a jarring lyre at first, 

But ever strove to make it true : 

Perplext in faith, but pure in deeds. 

At last he beat his music out. 

There lives more faith in honest doubt, 
Believe me, than in half the creeds. 

He fought his doubts and gather'd strength, 
He would not make his judgment blind, 
He faced the spectres of the mind 

And laid them : thus lie came at length 

To find a stronger faith his own ; 

And Power was with liim in the night, 
Which makes the darkness and the hglit. 

And dwells not in the light alone. 

But in the darkness and the cloud, 
As over Sinai's peaks of old. 
While Israel made their gods of gold, 

Altho' the trumpet blew so loud. 

xcvi. 

Mv love has talk'd with rocks and trees ; 
He finds on misty mountain-ground 
His own vast sliadow glory-crown'd ; 

He sees himself in all he sees. 

Two partners of a married life, — 

I look'd on these, and thought of thee 
In vastness and in mystery. 

And of my spirit as of a wife. 

These two — they dwelt with eye on eye. 
Their hearts of old have beat in tune, 
Their meetings made December June, 

Their every parting was to die. 

Their love has never past away ; 
Tlie days she never can forget 
Are earnest that he loves her yet, 

Whate'er the faithless people say. 



Her life is lone, he sits apart. 
He loves her yet, she will not weep, 
'J'ho' rapt in matters dark and deep 

He seems to slight her simple heart. 

He thrids the labyrinth of the mind. 
He reads the secret of the star. 
He seems so near and yet so far. 

He looks so cold : she thinks him kind. 

She keeps the gift of years before, 

A wither'd violet is her bliss ; 

She knows not what his greatness is : 
For that, for all, she loves him more. 

For him she plays, to him she sings 
Of early faith and plighted vows ; 
She knows but matters of the house. 

And he, he knows a thousand things. 

Her faith is fixt and cannot movt. 
She darkly feels him great and wise. 
She dwells on him with faithful eyes, 

" I cannot understand: I love." 

xcvn. 

You leave us : you will see the Rhine, 
And those fair hills I saii'd belnw. 
When I was there with him ; and go 

By summer belts of wheat and vine 

To where he breathed his latest breath, 
That City. All her splendor seems 
No livelier than the wisp that gleams 

On Lethe in the eyes of Death. 

Let her great Danube rolling fair 
Enwind her isles, unmark'd of me : 
I have not seen, I will not see 

Vienna ; rather dream that there, 

A treble darkness. Evil haunts 

The birth, the bridal ; friend from friend 

Is oftener patted, fathers bend 
Above more graves, a thousand wants 

Gnarr at the heels of men, and prey 
By each cold hearth, and sadness flmgs 
Her shadow on the blaze of kings : 

And yet myself have heard him say. 

That not in any mother town 

With statelier progress to and fro 
The double tides of chariots flow 

By park and suburb under brown 

Of lustier leaves ; nor more content. 
He told me, lives in any crowd, 
When all is gay with lamps, and loud 

With sport and song, in booth and tent. 

Imperial halls, or open plain ; 

And wheels the circled dance, and breaks 

The rocket molten into flakes 
Of crimson or in emerald rain. 



IN ME MORI AM. 



RiSEST thou thus, dim dawn, agrain, 
So loud with voices of the birds. 
So lliick with lowings of the herds, 

Day, when I lost the flower of men ; 

Who tremblest thro' thy darkling red 
On yon swoll'n brook that bubbles fast 
By meadows breathing of the past. 

And woodlands holy to the dead ; 

Who murmurest in the foliaged eaves 
A song that slights the coming care. 
And Autumn laying here and there 

A fiery finger on the leaves ; 

Who wakenest with thy balmy breath. 
To myriads on the genial earth, 
Memories of bridal, or of birth. 

And unto myriads more, of death. 

O, wheresoever those may be, 
P>etwixt the slumber of the poles. 
To-day they count as kindred souls ; 

They know me not, but mourn with me. 

xcix. 

I ct.iMB the hill : from end to end 
Of all the landscape underneath, 
I find no place that does not breathe 

Some gracious memory of my friend ; 

No gray old grange, or lonely fold, 
Or low iTiorass and whispering reed, 
Or simple stile from mead to mead, 

Or sheepwalk up the windy wold ; 

No hoary knoll of ash and haw 
That hears the latest linnet trill. 
Nor quarry trench'd along the hill. 

And haunted by the wrangling daw ; 

Nor runlet tinkling from the rock ; 
Nor pastoral rivulet that swerves 
To left and right thro' meadowy curves, 

That feed the mothers of the flock ; 

But each has pleased a kindred eye. 
And each reflects a kindlier day ; 
And, leaving these, to pass away, 

I think once more he seems to die. 



Unw.\tch'd, the garden bough shall sway, 
The tender blossom flutter down, 
Unloved, that beech will gather brown. 

This maple burn itself away ; 

Unloved, the sun-flower, shining fair, 
Ray round with flames her disk of seed. 
And many a rose-carnation feed 

With summer spice the humming air ; 

Unloved, by many a sandy bar, 
The brook shall babble down the plain, 
At noon, or when the lesser wain 

Is twisting round ihe polar star ; 



Uncared for, gird the windy grove. 

And flood the haunts of hern and crake; 
Or into silver arrows break 

The sailing moon in creek and cove; 

Till from the garden and the wild 

A fresh association blow, 

And year by year the landscape grow. 
Familiar to the stranger's child ; 

As year by year the laborer tills 

His wonted glebe, or lops the glades ; 
And year by year our memory fades 

From all the circle of the hills. 



We leave the well-beloved place 
Where first we gazed upon the sky; 
The roofs, that heard our earliest cry. 

Will shelter one of stranger race. 

We go, but ere we go from home. 
As down the garden-walks I move. 
Two spirits of a diverse love 

Contend for loving masterdom. 

One whispers, here thy boyhood sung 
Long since its matin song, and heard 
The low love-language of the bird 

In native hazels tassel-hung. 

The other answers, " Yea, but here 
Thy feet have strayed in after hours 
With thy lost friend among the bowers. 

And this hath made them trebly dear." 

These two have striven half the day. 
And each prefers his separate claim. 
Poor rivals in a losing game. 

That will not yield each other way. 

[ turn to go : my feet are set 

To leave the pleasant fields and farms ; 

They mix in one another's arms 
To one pure image of regret. 



On that last night before we went 

From out the doors where I was bred, 
I dream'd a vision of the dead. 

Which left niy after-morn content. 

Methought I dwelt within a hall. 
And maidens with me : distant hills 
From hidden summits fed with rills 

A river sliding by the wall. 

The hall with harp and carol rang. 
They sang of what is wise and good 
And graceful. In the centre stood 

A statue veil'd, to which they sang ; 

And which, tho' veil'd, was known to me, 
The shape of him I loved, and love 
p'orever : then flew in a dove 

4nd biouglu a summons from the sea: 



»34 



IN MEMORIAM. 



And when they learnt that I must go, 
They wept and wail'd, but led the way 
To where a little shallop lay 

At anchor in the flood below ; 

And on by many a level mead, 

And shadowing bluff that made the banks, 
We glided winding under ranks 

Of iris, and the golden reed ; 

And still as vaster grew the shore. 

And roll'd the floods in grander space. 
The maidens gather'd strength and grace 

And presence, lordlier than before ; 

And I myself, who sat apart 

And walch'd them, wax'd in every limb; 

1 felt the thews of Anakim, 
The pulses of a Titan's heart ; 

As one would sing the death of war. 
And one would cliani the history 
Of that great race, which is to be. 

And one the shaping of a star ; 

Until the forward-creeping tides 
Began to foam, and we to draw. 
From deep to deep, to where we saw 

A great ship lift her shining sides. 

The man we loved was there on deck, 
But thrice as large as man he bent 
To greet us. Up the side I went, 

And fell in silence on his neck : 

Whereat those maidens with one mind 
Bewail'd their lot ; I did them wrong : 
"We served thee here," they said, "so 
long, 

And wilt thou leave us now behind? " 

So rapt I was, they could not win 
An answer from my lips, but he 
Replying, " Enter likewise ye 

And go with us " : they enter'd in. 

And while the wind began to sweep 
A music out of sheet and shroud. 
We steer'd her toward a crimson clond 

That landlike slept along the deep. 



The time draws near the birth of Christ : 
The moon is hid, the niglit is still ; 
A single church below the hill 

Is pealing, folded in the mist. 

A single peal of bells below. 

That wakens at this hour of rest 
A single murmur in the breast. 

That these are not the bells 1 know. 

Like strangers' voices here they sound, 
In lands where not a memory strays. 
Nor landmark breathes of other days. 

But all is new luihallow'd ground. 



This holly by the cottage-eave. 

To-night, ungather'd, shall it stand: 
We live within the stranger's land, 

And strangely falls our Christmas-eve. 

Our father's dust is left alone 
And silent under other snows : 
There in due time the woodbine blows. 

The violet comes, but we are gone. 

No more shall wayward grief abuse 
The genial hour with mask and mime ; 
For change of place, like growth of time^ 

Has broke the bond of dying use. 

Let cares that petty shadows cast, 

I'y which our lives are chiefly proved, 
A little spare the night I loved. 

And hold it solemn to the past. 

r.ut let no footstep beat the floor, 
Nor bowl of wassail mantle warm ; 
For who would keep an ancient form 

Thro' which the spirit breathes no more? 

Be neither song, nor game, nor feast ; 

Nor harp be touch'd, nor flute be blown; 

No dance, no motion, save alone 
What lightens in the lucid east 

Of rising worlds by yonder wood. 

Long sleeps the summer in the seed ; 

Run out your measured arcs, and lead 
The closing cycle rich in good. 



Ring out wild bells to the wild sky, 

'I'he flying cloud, the frosty light : 
The year is dying in the night ; 
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. 

Ring out the old, ring in the new. 
Ring, happy bells, across the snow; 
The year is going, let him go ; 

Ring out the false, ring in the true. 

Ring out the grief that saps the mind. 
For those that here we see no more ; 
Ring out the feud of rich and poor. 

Ring in redress to all mankind. 

Ring out a slowly dying cause. 
And ancient forms of party strife ; 
Ring in the nobler modes of life. 

With sweeter manners, purer laws. 

Ring out the want, the care, the sin. 
The faithless coldness of the times ; 
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, 

But ring the fuller minstrel in. 

Ring out false pride in place and blood, 
The civic slander and the sjiitc ; 
Ring in the love of truth and right. 

Ring in the common love of good. 

Ring out old shapes of foul disease ; 
Ring out the nairowing lust of gold; 




"Ring out wild bells to the wild sky.' 



IN ME MORI AM. 



13S 



Rinj; out tlie tlioiisani wars of old, 
RiiiR in the thousand years of peace. 

Rin'^ in the valiant man and free, 
The larger heart, the kindlier hand; 
Ring out the darkness of the land, 

Ring in the Christ that is to be. 

CVI. 

It is the day when he was born, 

A bitter day that early sank 

Behind a purple-frosty bank 
Of vapor, leaving night forlorn. 

The time admits not flowers or leaves 
To deck the banquet. Fiercely flies 
Tht blast of North and East, and ice 

Makes daggers at the sharpen'd eaves. 

And bristles all the brakes and thorns 
To yon hard crescent, as slie hangs 
Above the wood which grides and clangs 

Its leafless ribs and iron horns 

Together, in the drifts that pass 

To darken on the rolling brine 

That breaks the coast. But fetch the 
wine. 
Arrange the board and brim the glass ; 

Bring in great logs and let them lie. 

To make a solid core of heat ; 

Be cheerful-minded, talk and treat 
Of all things ev'n as he were by ; 

We keep the day. With festal cheer. 
With books and music, surely we 
Will drink to him whate'er he be. 

And sing the songs he loved to hear. 



I WILL not shut me from my kind, 

And, lest I stiflTen into stone, 

I will not eat my heart alone, 
Nor feed with sighs a passing wind : 

What profit lies in barren faith. 

And vacant yearning, tho' with might 
To scale the heaven's highest height. 

Or dive below the wells of Death ? 

What find I in the highest place, 

But mine own phantom chanting hymns? 
And on the depths of death there swims 

The reflex of a human face. , 

I Ml rather take what fruit may be 
Of sorrow under human skies : 
'T is held that sorrow makes us wise. 

Whatever wisdom sleep with thee. 

cvni. 
Heart-affluence in discursive talk 

From household fountains never dry ; 

The critic clearness of an eye, 
That saw thro' all the Muses' walk ; 



Seraphic intellect and force 

To seize and throw the doubts of man ; 

Impassion'd logic, which outran 
The hearer in its fiery course ; 

High nature amorous of the good. 
But touch'd with no ascetic gloom ; 
And passion pure in snowy bloom 

Thro' all the years of April blood ; 

A love of freedom rarely felt, 
Of freedom in her regal seat 
Of England ; not the school-boy heat. 

The bUnd hysterics of the Celt ; 

And manhood fused witli female grace 
In such a sort, the child would twine 
A trustful hand, unask'd, in thine. 

And find his comfort in thy face ; 

All these have been, and thee mine eyes 
Have look'd on : if they look'd in vain, 
My shame is greater who remain. 

Nor let thy wisdom make me wise. 



Thy converse drew us with delight, 
The men of rathe and riper years : 
The feeble soul, a haunt of fears, 

Forgot his weakness in thy sight. 

On thee the loyal-hearted hung. 

The proud was half disarm'd of pride, ' 
Nor cared the serjient at thy side 

To flicker with his double tongue. 

The stem were mild when thou wert by. 
The flippant put himself to school 
And heard thee, and the brazen fool 

Was soften'd, and he knew not why ; 

While I, thy dearest, sat apart. 
And felt thy triumph was as mine ; 
And loved them more, that they were thine, 

The graceful tact, the Christian art ; 

Not mine the sweetness or the skill 
But mine the love that will not tire. 
And, born of love, the vague desire 

That spurs an imitative will. 



The churl in spirit, up or down 
Along the scale of ranks, thro' all, 
To him who grasps a golden ball, 

By blood a king, at heart a clown ; 

The churl in spirit, howe'er he veil 
His want in forms for fashion's sake, 
Will let his coltish nature break 

At seasons thro' the gilded pale : 

For who can always act ? but he, 
To whom a thousand memories call. 
Not being less but more than all 

The gentleness he seem'd to be, 



K36 



IN MEMORIAM. 



Best seem'd the thing he was, and join'd 
Each office of the social hour 
To noble manners, as the flower 

And native growth of noble mind ; 

Nor ever narrowness or spite, 
Or villain fancy fleeting by, 
Drew in the expression of an eye, 

Where God and Nature met in light ; 

And thus he bore without abuse 
The grand old name of gentleman, 
Defamed by every charlatan. 

And soil'd with all ignoble use. 



High wisdom holds my wisdom less, 
That I, who gaze with temperate eyes 
On glorious insufficiencies, 

Set light by narrower perfectness. 

But thou, that fillest all the room 
Of all my love, art reason why 
1 seem to cast a careless eye 

On souls, the lesser lords of doom. 

For what wert thou ? some novel power 
Sprang up forever at a touch, 
And hope could never hope too much, 

In watching thee from hour to hour. 

Large elements in order brought. 

And tracks of calm from tempest made, 
And world-wide fluctuation sway'd 

In vassal tides that follow'd thought. 



'T IS held that sorrow makes us wise ; 
Yet how much wisdom sleeps with thee 
Which not alone had guided me, 

But served the seasons that may rise ; 

For can I doubt who knew thee keen 
In intellect, with force and skill 
To strive, to fashion, to fulfil — 

I doubt not what thou wouldst have been : 

A life in civic action warm, 
' A soul on highest mission sent, 

A potent voice of Parliament, 
A pillar steadfast in the storm. 

Should licensed boldness gather force, 
Becoming, when the time has birth, 
A lever to uplift the earth 

And roll it in another course, 

With thousand shocks that come and go. 
With agonies, with energies. 
With overthrowings, and with cries. 

And undulations to and fro. 

CXIII. 

Who loves not Knowledge ? Who shall rail 
Against her beauty? May she mix 
With men and prosper ! Who sh.lU fix 

Her pillars ? Let her work prevail. 



But on her forehead sits a fire : 
She sets her forward countenance 
And leaps into the future chance, 

Submitting all things to desire. 

Half-grown as yet, a child, and vain, 
She cannot fight the fear of death. 
What is she, cut from love and faith, 

But some wild Pallas from the brain 

Of Demons? fiery-hot to burst 
All barriers in her onward race 
For power. Let her know her place; 

She is the second, not the first. 

A higher hand must make her mild, 
If all be not in vain : and guide 
Her footsteps, moving side by side 

With wisdom, like the j'ounger child : 

For she is earthly of the mind. 
But Wisdom heavenly of the soul. 
O friend, who earnest to ihy goal 

So early, leaving me behind, 

I would the great world grew like thee. 
Who grewest not alone in power 
And knowledge, but by year and hour 

In reverence and in charity. 

cxiv. 

Now fades the last long streak of snow, 
Now bourgeons every maze of quick 
About the flowering squares, and thick 

By ashen roots the violets blow. 

Now rings the woodland loud and long. 
The distance takes a lovelier hue. 
And drown'd in yonder living blue 

The lark becomes a sightless song. 

Now dance the lights on lawn and lea, 
The flocks are whiter down the vale, 
And milkier every milky sail 

On winding stream or distant sea ; 

Where now the seamew pipes, or dives 
In yonder gleaming green, and fly 
The happy birds, that change their sky 

To build and brood ; that live their lives 

From land to land ; and in my breast 
Spring wakens too ; and my regret 
Becomes an April violet. 

And buds and blossoms like the rest. 



Is it, then, regret for buried time 
Th.at keenlier in sweet April wakes. 
And meets the year, and gives and takes 

The colors of the crescent prime ? 

Not all ; the songs, the stirring air. 
The life re-orient out of dust. 
Cry thro' the sense to hearten trust 

lu tkat which made the world so fair. 



IN MEMORIAM. 



Not all regret : the face will shine 
Upon nie, while I muse alone ; 
And that dear voice I once have known 

Still speak to me of me and mine : 

Yet less of sorrow lives in me 

For days of happy commune dead ; 
Less yearning for the friendship fled, 

Than some strong bond which is to be. 

CXVI. 

O DAYS and hours, your work is this, 
To hold me from my proper place, 
A little while from his embrace. 

For fuller gain of after bliss ; 

That out of distance might ensue 
Desire of nearness doubly sweet ; 
And unto meeting when we meet, 

Delight a hundred-fold accrue, 

For every grain of sand that runs, 
And every span of shade that steals, 
And every kiss of toothed wheels. 

And all the courses of the suns. 

cxvil. 

Contemplate all this work of Time, 
The giant laboring in his youth : 
Nor dream of human love and truth, 

As dying Nature's earth and lime ; 

But trust that those we call the dead 
Are breathers of an ampler day, 
Forever nobler ends. They say. 

The solid earth whereon we tread 

In tracts of fluent heat began, 

And grew to seeming-random forms. 
The seeming prey of cyclic storms. 

Till at the last arose the man ; 

Who throve and branch'd from clime to clime 

The herald of a higher race, 

And of himself in higher place 
If so he type this work of time 

Within himself, from more to more ; 
Or. crown'd with attributes of woe 
Like glories, move his course, and show 

That life is not as idle ore. 

But iron dug from central gloom, 
And heated hot with burning fears, 
And dipt in baths of hissing tears. 

And batter'd with the shocks of doom 

To shape and use. Arise and flv 
The reeling Faun, the sensual feast ; 
Move upward, working out the beast. 

And let the ape and tiger die. 



Doors, where my heart was used to beat 
So quickly, not as one that weeps 
I come once more ; the city sleeps ; 

I smell the meadow in the street ; 



I heara chirp of birds ; I see 

Betwixt the black fronts long-withdrawn 
A light-blue lane of early dawn, 

-And think of early days and lliee. 

And bless thee, for thy lips are bland. 
And bright the friendship of thine eye : 
And in my thoughts with scarce a sigh . 

I take the pressure of thine hand. 



I TRUST I have not wasted breath ; 
I think we are not wholly brain. 
Magnetic mockeries ; not in vain. 

Like Paul with beasts, I fought with Death 

Not only cunning casts in clay : 
Let Science prove we are, and then 
What matters Science unto men. 

At least to me ? 1 would nut stay. 

Let him, the wiser man who springs 
Hereafter, up from childhood shape 
His action, like the greater ape, 

But I was born to other things. 



Sad Hesper o'er the buried sun, 
And ready, thou, to die with him 
Thou watchest all things ever din« 

And dimmer, and a glory done : 

The team is loosen'd from the wain, 
The boat is drawn upon the shore j 
Thou listenest to the closing door 

And life is darken'd in the brain. 

Bright Phosphor, fresher for the nighf, 
By thee the world's great work is hrfard 
Beginning, and the wakeful bird : 

Behind thee comes the greater light : 

The market boat is on the stream. 
And voices hail it from the brink : 
Thou hear'st the village hammer clink. 

And see'st the moving of the team. 

Sweet Hesper- Phosphor, doub'e name 
F'or what is one, the first, the last, 
Thou, like my present and my past. 

Thy place is changed ; thou art the same. 

cxxi. 

O, WAST thou with me, dearest, then. 
While I rose up against mv doom. 
And yearn'd to burst the folded gloom 

To bare the eternal Heavens again. 

To feel once more, in placid awe, 
The strong imagination roll 
A sphere of stars about my soul, 

In all her motion one with law. 

If thou wert with me, and the grave 
Divide us not, be with me now, 
And enter in at breast and brow, 

Till all my blood, a fuller wave. 



138 



IN MEMORIAM. 



Be quicken'd with a livelier breath, 
And like an inconsiderate boy, 
As in the former flash of joy, 

I slip tlie thoughts of life and death : 

And all the breeze of Fancy blows. 
And every dew-drop paints a bow. 
The wizard lightnings deeply glow. 

And every thought breaks out a rose. 

CXXII. 

There rolls the deep where grew the tree. 

O earth, what changes thou hast seen ! 

There where the long street roars, hath 
been 
The stillness of the central sea. 

The hills are shadows, and they flow 
From form to form, and nothing stands ; 
They melt like mist, the solid lands, 

Like clouds they shape themselves and go. 

But in my spirit will I dwell. 

And dream my dream, and hold it true; 

For tho' my lips may breathe adieu, 
I cannot think the thing farewell. 

CXXIII. 

That which we dare invoke to bless ; 
Our dearest faith ; our ghastliest doubt ; 
He, They, One, All ; within, without ; 
The Power in darkness whom we guess ; 

I found Him not in world or sun. 
Or eagle's wing, or insect's eye : 
Nor thro' the questions men may try, 
The petty cobwebs we have spun : 
1 

I If e'er, when faith had fall'n asleep, 
) I heard a voice, " Believe no more," 
And heard an ever-breaking shore 
That tumbled in the Godless deep : 

A warmth within the breast would melt 
The freezing reason's colder part. 
And like a man in wrath the heart 

Stood up and answer'd, " I have felt." 

No. like a child in doubt and fear : 
B'lt that blind clamor made me wise; 
Then was I as a child that cries. 

Bat, crying, knows his father near; 

And what I am beheld again 

What is, and no man understands ; 
And out of darkness came the hands 

That reach thro' nature, moulding men. 

cxxrv. 

Whatever T have said or sung, 

.Some bitter notes my harp would give, 
Yea, tho' there often seem'd to live 

A. contradiction on the tongue, 

\ tt Hope had never lost her youth : 
She did but look thro' dimmer eyes ; 
Or Love but play'd with gracious lies 
Because he felt so fix'd in truth : 



+-■ 



And if the .song were full of care. 
He breathed the spirit of the song ; 
And if the words were sweet and strong, 

He set his royal signet there ; 

Abiding with me till I sail 
To seek thee on the mystic deeps, 
And this electric force, that keeps 

A thousand pulses dancing, fail. 



Love is and was my Lord and King, 
And in his presence I attend 
To hear the tidings of my friend. 

Which every hour his couriers bring. 

Love is and was my King and Lord, 
And will be, tho' as yet I keep 
Within his court on earth, and sleep 

Encompass'd by his faithful guard. 

And hear at times a sentinel 

Who moves about from place to place. 
And whispers to the worlds of space. 

In the deep night, that all is well. 

cxxvi. 

And all is well, tho' faith and form 
lie sunder'd in the niyht of fear : 
Well roars the storm to those that lieaf 

A deeper voice across the storm, 

Proclaiming social truth shall spread. 
And justice, ev"n tho' thrice again 
The red fool-fury of the Ser.ic 

Should pile her barricades with dead. 

But ill for him that wears a crown, 
And him, the lazar, in his rags : 
They tremble, the sustaining crags; 

The spires of ice are toppled down. 

And molten up, and roar in flood ; 
The fortress crashes from on high, 
The brute earth lightens to the sky. 

And the great .(Eon sinks in blood, 

And coinpass'd by the fires of Hell ; 
While thou, dear spirit, haiipy star, 
O'erlook'st the tumult from afar. 

And smilest, knowing all is well. 



The love that rose on stronger wings, 
Unpalsied when we met with Death, 
Is comrade of the lesser faith 

That sees the course of human things. 

No doubt vast eddies in the flood 
Of onward time shall yet be made. 
And throned races may degrade ; 

Yet, O ye mysteries of good. 

Wild Hours that fly with Hope and Fear, 
If all your office had to do 
With old results that look like new ; 

If this were all your mission here, 



IN MEMORIAM. 



139 ' 



To draw, to sheathe a useless sword, 
'lo fool the crowd with glorious lies, 
To cleave a creed in sects and cries, 

To change the bearing of a word. 

To shift an arbitrary power. 

To cramp the student at his desk, 
To make old bareness picturesque 

And tuft with grass a feudal tower ; 

Why then my scorn might well descend 
On you and yours. I see in part 
That all, as in some piece of art, 

Is toil cooperant to an end. 



Dear friend, far off, my lost desire, 
So far, so near in woe and weal ; 
O loved the most, when most I feel 

There is a lower and a higher ; 

Known and unknown ; human, divine ; 

Sweet human hand and lips and eye ; 

Dear heavenly friend that canst not die, 
Mine, mine, forever, ever mine ; 

Strange friend, past, present, and to be ; 

Love deeplier, darklier understood ; 

Behold, I dream a dream of good, 
And mingle all the world with thee. 



Thy voice is on the rolling air ; 

I hear thee where the waters run ; 

Thou standest in the rising sun, 
And in the setting thou art fair. 

What art thou then ? I cannot gness ; 
But tho' I seem in star and tlower 
To feel thee some diffusive power, 

I do not therefore love thee less : 

My love involves the love before ; 

Aly love is vaster passion now ; 

Tho' niix'd with God and Nature thou, 
I seera to love thee more and more. 

Far off thou art, but ever nigh ; 

I have thee still, and I rejoice ; 

I prosper, circled with thy voice ; 
I shall not lose thee tho' I die. 



O LIVING will that shalt endure 
When all that seems shall suffer shock, 
Rise in the spiritual rock. 

Flow thro' our deeds and make them pure. 

That we may lift from out of dust 
A voice as unto him that hears, 
A cry above the conquer'd years 

To one that with us works, and trusts, 

With faith that comes of self-control. 
The truths that never can be proved 
Until we close with all we loved, 

And all we flow from, soul in soul. 



O TRUE and tried, so well and long. 
Demand not thou a marriage lay ; 
In that it is thy marriage day 

Is music more than any song. 

Nor have I felt so much of bliss 
Since first he told me that he loved 
A daughter of our house ; nor proved 

Since that dark day a day like this ; 

Tho' I since then have number'd o'er 
Some thrice three years : they went and 

cami^ 
Remade the blood and changed the frame, 

And yet is love not less, but more ; 

No longer caring to embalm 

In dying songs a dead regret. 

But like a statue solid-set. 
And moulded in colossal calm. 

Regret is dead, but love is more 
Than in the summers that are flovm. 
For I myself with lliese have grown 

To something greater than before ; 

Which makes appear the songs I made 
As echoes out of weaker times. 
As half but idle brawling rhymes. 

The sport of random sun and shade. 

But where is she, the bridal flower. 
That must be made a wife ere noon? 
She enters, glowing like the moon 

Of Eden on its bridal bower : 

On me she bends her blissful eyes. 
And then on thee ; they meet thy look 
And brighten like the star that shook 

Betwixt the palms of paradise. 

O when her life was yet in bud, 
He too foretold the perfect rose. 
For thee she grew, for thee she grows 

Forever, and as fair as good. 

And thou art worthy ; full of power ; 
As gentle ; liberal-minded, great, 
Consistent ; wearing all that weight 

Of learning lightly like a flower. 

But now set out : the noon is near, 
And I must give away the bride ; 
She fears not, or with thee beside 

And me behind her, will not fear : 

For I that danced her on my keee. 
That watch'd heron her nurse's arm. 
That shielded all her life from harm. 

At last must part with her to thee ; 

Now waiting to be made a wife. 
Her feet, my darling, on the dead ; 
Their pensive tablets round her head, 

And the most living words of life 



I40 



IN MEMORIAM. 



Breathed in her ear. The ring is on, 
The "wilt thou," answer'd, and again 
The "wilt thou" ask'd, till out of twain 

Her sweet " I will" has made ye one. 

Now sign your names, which shall be read, 
Mute symbols of a joyful morn, 
By village eyes as yet unborn ; 

The names are sign'd, and overhead 

Begins the clash and clang that tells 
The joy to every wandering breeze ; 
The blind wall rocks, and on the trees 

The dead leaf trembles to the bells. 

O happy hour, and happier hour* 
Await them. Many a merry face 
Salutes ihem — maidens of the place. 

That pelt us in the porch with flowers. 

O happy hour, behold the bride 

With him to whom her hand I gave. 
They leave the porch, ibey pass tlie grave 

That has to-day its sunny side. 

To-day the grave is bright for me, 
For them the light of life increased. 
Who stay to share the morning feast. 

Who rest to-night beside the sea. 

Let all my genial spirits advance 
To meet and greet a whiter sun ; 
My drooping memory will not shun 

The foaming grape of Eastern France. 

It circles round, and fancy plays. 
And hearts are warni'd, and faces bloom. 
As drinking health to bride and groom 

We wish them store of happy days. 

Nor count me all to blame if I 
Conjecture of a stiller guest, 
Perchance, perchance, among the rest, 

And, tho' in silence, wishing joy. 

I'ut they must go, the time draws on, 
And those white-favor'd horses wait ; 
They rise, but linger ; it is late ; 

Farewell, we kiss, and they are gone. 

A shade falls on us like the dark 
From little cloudlets on the grass, 
But sweeps away as out we pass 

To range tlie woods, to roam the park. 

Discussing how their courtship grew. 
And talk of others that are wed, 



And how she look'd, and what he said, 
And back we come at fall of dew. 

Again the feast, the speech, the glee. 

The shade of passing thought, the wealth 
Of words and wit, the double health. 

The crowning cup, the three-times-ihree, 

And last the dance ; — till I retire : 

Dumb is that tower which spake so loud. 
And high in heaven the streaming cloud. 

And on the downs a rising fire ; 

And rise, O moon, from yonder down, 

Till over down and over dale 

All night the shining vapor sail 
And pass the silent-lighted town. 

The white-faced halls, the glancing rills, 
And catch at every mountain head. 
And o'er the friths that branch and spread 

Their sleeping silver thro' the hills ; 

And touch with shade the bridal doors. 
With tender gloom the roof, the wall ; 
And breaking let the splendor fall 

To spangle all the happy shores 

By which they rest, and ocean sounds, 
And, star and system rolling past, 
A soul shall draw from out the vast 

And strike his being into bounds. 

And, moved thro' life of lower phase. 
Result in m.in, be born and think. 
And act and love, a closer link 

Betwixt us and the crowning race 

Of those that, eye to eye, shall look 
On knowledge ; under whose command 
Is Earth and Earth's, and in their hand 

Is Nature like an open book; 

No longer half-akin to brute. 

For all we thought and loved and did. 
And hoped, and suffer'd, is but seed 

Of what in them is flower and fruit ; 

Whereof the man, that with me trod 
This planet, was a noble type 
Appearing ere the times were ripe, 

That friend of mine who lives in God, 

That God, which ever lives and loves. 
One God, one law, one element. 
And one far-off divine event. 

To which the whole creation moves. 



MA UD. 141 



MAUD, AND OTHER POEMS. 



MAUD. 



I HATE the dreadful hollow behind the little wood, 
Its lips in the field above are dabbled with blood-red heath, 
The red-ribb'd ledges drip with a silent horror of blood, 
And Echo there, whatever is ask'd her, answers " Death." 



For there in the ghastly pit long since a body was found. 
His who had given me life — O father ! O God ! was it well? — 
Mangled, and flatten'd, and crush'd, and dinted into the ground 
There yet lies the rock that fell with him when he fell. 

3- 

Did he fling himself down? who knows ? for a vast speculation had fail'd, 
And ever he mutter'd and madden'd, and ever wann'd with despair, 
And out he walk'd when the wind like a broken worldling wail'd, 
Aud the tlying gold of the ruin'd woodlands drove thro' the air. 

4- 

I remember the time, for the roots of my hair were stirr'd 
By a shuffled step, by a dead weight trail'd, by a whisper'd fright. 
And my pulses closed their gates with a shock on my heart as I heard 
The shrill-edged shriek of a mother divide the shuddering night. 

S- 
Villany somewhere ! whose? One says, we are villains all. 
Not he : his honest fame should at least by me be maintain'd : 
But that old man, now lord of the broad estate and the Hall, 
Dropt off gorged from a scheme that had left us flaccid and drain'd. 

6. 
Why do they prate of the blessings of Peace? we have made them a curse. 
Pickpockets, each hand lusting for all that is not its own ; 
And lust of gam, in the spirit of Cain, is it better or worse 
Than the heart of the citizen hissing in war on his own hearthstone ? 

7- 
But these are the days of advance, the works of the men of mind. 
When who but a fool would have faith in a tradesman's ware or his word? 
Is It peace or war? Civil war, as I think, and that of a kind 
The viler, as underhand, not openly bearing the sword. 



Sooner or later I too may passively take the print 

Of the golden age — why not ? I have neither hope nor trust ; 

May make my heart as a millstone, set my face as a tlint. 

Cheat and be cheated, and die: who knows? we are ashes and dust. 



MAUD. 
9- 



Peace sitting under her olive, and slurring the days gone by, 

When the poor are hovell'd and hustled together, each sex, like swine, 

When only the ledger lives, and w hen only not all men lie ; 

Peace in her vineyard — yes ! — but a company forges the wine. 



And the vitriol madness flushes up in the ruffian's head. 
Till the filthy by-lane rings to the yell of the trampled wife. 
While chalk and alum and plaster are sold to the poor for bread, 
And the spirit of murder wor.vS m the very means of life. 



And Sleep must lie down arm'd, for the villanous centre-bits 
Grind on the wakeful ear in the hush of the moonless nights, 
While another is cheating the sick of a few last gasps, as he sits 
To pestle a poison'd poison behind his crimson lights. 



When a Mammonite mother kills her babe for a burial fee, 
And Timour-Mammon grins on a pile of children's bones. 
Is it peace or war? better, war ! loud war by land and by sea, 
War with a thousand battles, and shaking a hundred thrones. 

13- 
For I trust if an enemy's fleet came yonder round by the hill, 
And the rushing battle-bolt sang from the three-decker out of the foam. 
That the smooth-faced snub-nosed rogue would leap from his counter and till. 
And strike, if he could, were it but with his cheating yardwand, home. — 

14- 

What ! am I raging alone as my father raged in his mood ? 
Must / too creep to the hollow and dash my=elf down and die 
Rather than hold by the law that I made, nevermore to brood 
On a horror of shatter'd limbs and a wretched swindler's lie ? 

IS- 
Would there be sorrow for me ? there was Irve in the passionate shriek, 
Love for the silent thing that had made false haste to the grave— . 
Wrapt in a cloak, as I saw him, and thought he would rise and speak 
And rave at the lie ahd the liar, ah God, as he used to rave. 

i6. 
I am sick of the Hall and the hill, 1 am sick of the moor and the main. 
Why should I stay ? can a sweeter cliance ever come to me here? 
O. having the nerves of motion as well as the nerves of pain. 
Were it not wise if 1 fled from the place and the pit and the fear? 

17- 
There are worlmen np at the Hall : they are coming back from abroad ; 
The dark old place will be gilt by the touch of a millionnaire : 
I have heard, I know not whence, of the singular beauty of Maud; 
I play'd with the girl when a child ; she promised then to be fair. 

iS. 
Maud with her venturous climbings and tumbles and childish escapes, 
Maud the delight of the village, the ringing joy of the Hall, 
Maud with her sweet purse-mouth when my father dangled the grapes, 
Maud the beloved of my mother, the moon-faced darling of all, — 

19. 
What is she now? My dreams are bad. She may bring me a curse. 
No, there is fatter game on the moor ; she will let me alone. 
Thanks, for the fiend best knows whether woman or man be the worse. 
I will bury myself in my books, and the Devil may pipe to his own. 



MAUD. 



II. 



Long have I sigh'd for a calm : God grant I may find it at last ! 

It will never be broken by Maud, she has neither savor nor salt, 

But a cold and clear-cut face, as 1 found vv'hen her carriage past, 

Perfectly beautiful : let it be granted her : where is the fault ? 

All tliat I saw (for her eyes were downcast, not to be seen) 

Faultily faultless, icily regular, splendidly null, 

Dead perfection, no more ; nothing more, if it had not been 

For a chance of travel, a paleness, an hour's defect of the rose. 

Or an underlip, you may call it a little too ripe, too full. 

Or the least little delicate aquiline curve in a sensitive nose, 

Froin which 1 escaped heart-lree, with the least little touch of spleen. 

III. 

Cold and clear-cut face, why come you so cruelly meek. 
Breaking a slumber in which all spleenful folly was drown'd. 
Pale with the golden beam of an eyelash dead on the cheek, 
Passionless, pale, cold face, star-sweet on a gloom profound ; 
Womanlike, taking revenge too deep for a transient wrong 
Done but in thought to your beauty, and ever as pale as before 
Growing and fading and growing upon me without a sound, 
Luminous, gemlike, ghostlike, deathlike, half the night long 
Growing and fading and growing, till 1 could bear it no more, 
But arose, and all by myself in my own dark garden ground. 
Listening now to the tide in its broad-flung shipwrecking roar. 
Now to the scream of a madden'd beach dragg'd down by the wave, 
Walk'd in a wintry wind by a ghastly glimmer, and found 
The shining daffodil dead, and Orion low in his grave. 

IV. 



A MtLLiON emeralds break from the ruby-budded lime 
In the little grove where I sit — ah, wherefore cannot I be 
Like things of the season gay, like the bountiful season bland. 
When the far-off sail is blown by the breeze of a softer clime, 
Half-lost in the liquid azure bloom of a crescent of sea, 
The silent sapphire-spangled marriage ring of the land ? 



Below me, there, is the village, and looks how quiet and small ! 
And yet bubbles o'er like a city, with gossip, scandal, and spite ; 
And Jack on his alehouse bench has as many lies as a Czar ; 
And here on the landward side, by a red rock, glimmers the Hall ; 
And up m the high Hall-garden I see her pass like a light ; 
But sorrow seize me if ever that light be my leading star ! 

3- 

When have I bow'd to her father, the wrinkled head of the race ? 
I met her to-day with her brother, but not to her brother I bow'd ; 
I bow'd to his lady-sister as she rode by on the moor; 
But the fire of a foolish pride flash'd over her beautiful face. 

child, you wrong your beauty, believe it, in being so proud ; 
Your father has wealth well-gotten, and I am nameless and poor. 

4- 

1 keep but a man and a maid, ever ready to slander and steal ; 
I know it, and smile a hard-set smile, like a stoic, or like 

A wiser epicurean, and let the world have its way : 

For nature is one with rapine, a harm no preacher can heal ; 

The Mayfly is torn by the swallow, the sparrow spear'd by the shrike, 

And the whole little wood where I sit is a world of plunder and prey. 



MAUD. 



We are puppets, Man in his pride, and Beauty fair in her flower ; 
Do we move ourselves, or are moved by an unseen hand at a game 
That puslies us off from the board, and others ever succeed? 
Ah yet, we cannot be kind to each other here for an hour ; 
We whisper, and hint, and chuckle, and grin at a brother's shame ; 
However we brave it out, we men are a little breed. 



A monstrous eft was of old the Lord and Master of Earth, 
For him did his high sun flame, and his river billowing ran, 
And he felt himself in his force to be Nature's crowning race. 
As nine months go to the shaping an infant ripe for his birth, 
So many a million of ages have gone to the making of man : 
He now is first, but is he the last ? is he not too base ? 



The man of science himself is fonder of glory, and vain, 
An eye well-practised in nature, a spirit bounded and poor ; 
The passionate heart of the poet is whirl'd into folly and vice. 
I would not marvel at either, but keep a temperate brain ; 
For not to desire or admire, if a man could learn it, were more 
Than to walk all day like the sultan of old in a garden of spice. 



For the drift of the Maker is dark, an Isis hid by the veil. 

Who knows the wavs of the world, how God will bring them about? 

Our planet is one, the suns are many, the world is wide. 

Shall I weep if a Poland fall ? shall I shriek if a Hungary fail? 

Or an infant civilization be ruled with rod or with knout? 

I have not made the world, and He that made it will guide. 

9; 

Be mine a philosopher's life in the quiet woodland ways, 

Where if I cannot be gay let a passionless peace be my lot, 

Far-off from the clamor of liars belied in the hubbub of lies ; 

From the long-neck'd geese of the world that are ever hissing dispraise. 

Because their natures are little, and, whether he lieed it or not. 

Where each man walks with his head in a cloud of poisonous flies. 

ID. 

And most of all would I flee from the cruel madness of love. 
The honey of poison-flowers and all the measureless ill. 
Ah Maud, you milkwhite fawn, you are all unmeet for a wife. 
Your mother is mute in her grave as her image in marble above ; 
Your father is ever in London, you wander about at your will ; 
You have but fed on the roses, and lain in the lilies of life. 



V. 



A VOICE by the cedar-tree. 

In the meadow under the Hall I 

She is singing an air that is known to me, 

A passionate ballad gallant and gay, 

A martial song like a trumpet's call I 

Singing alone in the morning of life. 

In the ha|>py morning of life and of May, 

Singing of men that in battle array. 

Ready in heart and ready in hand, 

March with banner and bugle and fife 

To the death, for their native land. 



Maud with her exquisite face. 

And wild voice pealing up to the sunny sky, 



And feet like sunny gems on an English green, 
Maud in the light of her youth and her grace, \ 
Singing of Death, and of Honor that cannot ' 

die, . 

Till I well could weep for a time so sordid 

and mean. 
And myself so languid and base. 



Silence, beautiful voice ! 

He still, for you only trouble the rnind 

With a joy in which I cannot rejoice, 

A glory I shall not find. 

Still ! I will hear you no more, 

For your sweetness hardly leaves me a choice 

But to move to the meadow and fall before 

Her feet on the meadow grass, and adore, 

Not her, who is neither courtly nor kind. 

Not her, not her, but a voice. 



MAUD. 



MS 



VI. 



MoRNrNG arises stormy and pale, 

No sun, but a wannish glare 

In fold upon fold of luieless cloud, 

And the budded peaks of the wood are bow'd 

Caught and cufPd by the gale : 

1 had fancied it would be fair. 



Whom but Maud should I meet 

Last night, when the sunset burn'd 

On the blossom'd gable-ends 

At the head of the village street. 

Whom but Maud should I meet? 

And she touch'd my hand with a smile so 

sweet 
She made me divine amends 
For a courtesy not return'd. 



And thus a delicate spark 

Of glowing and growing light 

Thro' the livelong hours of the dark 

Kept itself warm in the heart of my dreams, 

Ready to burst in a color'd flame ; 

Till at last, when the morning came 

In a cloud, it faded, and seems 

But an ashen-gray delight. 



What if with her sunny hair. 

And sniile as sunny as cold. 

She meant to weave me a snare 

Of some coquettish deceit, 

Cleopatra-like as of old 

To entangle me when we met, 

To have her lion roll in a silken net, 

And fawn at a victor's feet. 



Ah, what shall I be at fifty 

Should Nature keep me' alive, 

If I find the world so bitter 

When I am but twenty-five? 

Yet, if she were not a cheat, 

If Maud were all that she seem'd. 

And her smile were all that I dream'd, 

Then the world were not so bitter 

But a smile could make it sweet. 

6. 
^What if tho' her eye seem'd full 
Of a kind intent to me. 
What if that dandy despot, he, 
That jewell'd mass of millinery, 
That oil'd and curl'd Assyrian Bull 
Smelling of musk and of insolence, 
Her brother, from whom I keep aloof. 
Who wants the finer politic sense 
To mask, tho' but in his own behoof. 
With a glassy smile his brutal scorn, — 
What if he had told her yestermorn 
How prettily for his own sweet sake 
A face of tenderness might be feigu'di 



And a moist mirage In desert eyes, 
That so, when the rotten hustings shake 
In anotlier month to his brazen lies, 
A wretched vote may be gain'd. 

7- 
For a raven ever croaks, at my side, 
Keep watch and ward, keep watch and ward. 
Or thou wilt prove their tool. 
Yea too, myself from myself I guard, 
F'or often a man's own angry pride 
Is cap and bells for a fool. 



Perhaps the smile and tender tone 

Came out of her pitying womanhood, 

For am I not, am I not, here alone 

So many a summer since she died, 

My mother, who was so gentle and good? 

Living alone in an empty house. 

Here half-hid in the gleaming wood. 

Where I hear the dead at midday moan. 

And the shrieking rush of the wainscot 

mouse. 
And my own sad name in comers cried. 
When the shiver of dancing leaves is throwm 
About its echoing chambers wide. 
Till a morbid hate and horror have grown 
Of a world in which I have hardly mixt, 
And a morbid eating lichen fixt 
On a heart half-turn'd to stone. 



O heart of stone, are you flesh, and caught 
I5y that you swore to withstand? 
For what was it else within me wrought 
But, I fear, the new strong wine of love, 
That made my tongue so stammer and trip 
When I sawthe treasured splendor, her hand, 
Come sliding out of her sacred glove. 
And the sunlight broke from her lip; 



I have play'd with her when a child ; 

She remembers it now we meet. 

Ah well, well, well, I may be beguiled 

By some coquettish deceit. 

Yet, if she were not a cheat. 

If Maud were all that she seem'd. 

And her smile had all that I dream'd. 

Then the %vorld were not so bitter 

But a smile could make it sweet. 



VIL 



Did I hear it half in a doze 
Long since, I know not where ? 

Did I dream it an hour ago. 
When asleep in this arm-chair? 



Men were drinking together. 
Drinking and talking of me ; 

" Well, if it prove a girl, the boy 
Will have plenty : so let it be." 



146 



MAUD. 



Is it an echo of something 
Read with a boy's delight. 

Viziers nodding together 
In some Arabian night? 



Strange, that I hear two men, 
Soiiiewhere, talking of me ; 

"Well, if it prove a girl, ray boy 
Will have plenty : so let it be." 



VIII. 

She came to the village church. 

And sat by a pillar alone ; 

An angel watching an urn 

Wept over her, carved in stone ; 

And once, but once, she lifted her eyes, 

And suddenly, sweetly, strangely blush'd 

To find they were met by my own ; 

And suddenly, sweetly, my heart beat stronger 

And thicker, until I heard no longer 

The snowy-banded, dilettante. 

Delicate-handed priest intone ; 

And thought, is it pride, and mused and 

sigh'd 
" No surely, now it cannot be pride." 



IX- 

I WAS walking a mile, 
More than a mile from the shore. 
The sun look'd out with a smile 
Betwixt the cloud and the moor, 
And riding at set of day 
Over the dark moor land. 
Rapidly riding far away. 
She waved to me with her hand. 
There were two at her side. 
Something flash'd in the sun, 
Down by the hill I saw them ride, 
In a moment they were gone : 
Like a sudden spark 
Struck vainly in the night, 
And back returns the dark 
With no more hope of light 



Sick, am I sick of a jealous dread? 
Was not one of the two at her side 
This new-made lord, whose splendor plucks 
The slavish hat from the villager's head ? 
Whose old grandfather has lately died, 
Gone to a blacker pit, for whom 
Grimy nakedness dragging his trucks 
And laying his trams in a poison'd gloom 
Wrought, till he crept from a gutted mine 
Master of half a servile shire. 
And left his coal all turn'd into gold 
To a grandson, first of his noble line, 



Rich in the grace all women desire, 
Strong in the power that all men adore. 
And simper and set their voices lower. 
And soften as if to a girl, and hold 
Awe-stricken breaths at a work divine, . 
Seeing his gewgaw castle shine. 
New as his title, built last year, 
There amid perky larches and pine, 
And over the sullen-purple moor 
(Look at it) pricking a cockney ear. 



What, has he found my jewel out ? 
For one of the two that rode at her sida 
Bound for the Hall, I am sure was he : 
Bound for the Hall, and I think for a bride. 
Blithe would her brother's acceptance be. 
Maud could be gracious too, no doubt, 
To a lord, a captain, a padded shape, 
A bought commission, a waxen face, 
A rabbit mouth that is ever agape — 
Bought? what is it he cannot buy? 
And therefore splenetic, personal, base, 
A wounded thing with a rancorous cry. 
At war with myself and a wretched race, 
Sick, sick to the heart of life, am I. 



Last week came one to the county town. 
To preach our poor little army down. 
And play the game of the despot kings, 
Tho' the state has done it and thrice as well: 
This broad-brim'd hawker of holy things, 
Whose ear is stuff'd with his cotton, and rings 
Even in dreams to the chink of his pence. 
This huckster put down war ! can he tell 
Whether war be a cause or a consequence? 
Put down the passions that make earth Hellt 
Down with ambition, avarice, jiride. 
Jealousy, down ! cut off from the mind 
I'he bitter springs of anger and fear; 
Down too, down at your own fireside. 
With the evil tongue and the evil ear, 
For each is at war with mankind. 



I wish T could hear again 

The chivalrous battle-song 

That she warbled alone in her joy ! 

I might persuade myself then 

She would not do herself this great wrong 

To take a wanton, dissolute boy 

For a man and leader of men. 



Ah God, for a man with heart, head, hand. 
Like some of the simple great ones gone 
For ever and ever by. 
One still strong man in a blatant land, 
Whatever they call him, what care I, 
Aristocrat, democrat, autocrat, — one 
Who can rule and dare not lie. 

6. 

And ah for a man to arise in me. 
That the man I am may cease to be I 



^r 




' She came to the village church, 
And sat by a pillar alone." 



MAUD. 



147 



XI. 



LET the solid ground 
Not U\\ bein;aih my feet 

Before my life has found 

What some have found so sweet ; 
Then let come what come may, 
What matter if I go mad, 

1 shall have had my day. 



Let the sweet heavens endure, 
Not close and darken above me 

Before I am quite quite -ure 
That there is one to love me ; 

Then let come what come may 

To a life that has been so sad, 

1 shall have had my day. 



XII. 



Birds in the high Hall-garden 
When twilight was falling, 

Maud, INIaud, Maud, Maud, 
They were crying and calling. 

2. 

Where was Maud ? in our wood ; 

And I, who else, was with her. 
Gathering woodland lilies. 

Myriads blow together. 

3- 

Birds in our woods sang 
Ringing thro' the valleys, 

Maud is here, here, here 
In among the lilies. 



I kiss'd her slender hand, 
She took the kiss sedaiely ; 

Maud is not seventeen, 
But she is tall and stately. 

5- 
1 to cry out on pride 

Who have won her favor ! 
O Maud were sure of Heaven 

If lowliness could save her. 



I know the way she went 
Home with her maiden posy. 

For her feet have touch'd the meadows 
And left the daisies rosy. 



Birds in the high Hall-garden 
Were crying and calling to her. 

Where is Maud, Maud, Maud, 
One is come to woo her. 



Look, a horse at the door. 

And little King Charles is snarling. 
Go back, my lord, across the moor, 

You are not her darling. 



XIIL 



Scorn'd, to be scom'd by one that I scorn, 

Is that a matter to make me fret? 

That a calamity hard to be bome? 

Well, he may live to hate me yet. 

Fool that 1 am to be vext with his pride I 

I past him, I was crossing his lands; 

He stood on the path a little aside ; 

His face, as I grant, in spite of spite. 

Has a broad-blown comeliness, red ind 

white. 
And six feet two, as I think, he stands ; 
But his essences turn'd the live air sick, 
And barbarous opulence jewel-thick 
Sunn'd itself on his breast and his hands. 



Who shall call me ungentle, unfair, 
1 long'd so heartily then and there 

To give him the grasp of fellowship ; 
But while I past he was humming an air, 
Stopt, and then with a riding whip 
Leisurely tapping a glossy boot. 
And curving a contumelious lip, 
Gorgonized me fro;-:! head to foot 
With a stony British stare. 



Why sits he here in his father's chair? 
That old man never comes to his place: 
Shall 1 believe him ashamed to be seen? 
For only once, in the village street. 
Last year, I caught a glimpse of his face, 
A gray old wolf and a lean. 
Scarcely, now, would 1 call him a cheat ; 
For then, perhaps, as a child of deceit. 
She iTiight by a true descent be untrue ; 
And Maud is as true as Maud is sweet ; 
Tho' I fancy her sweetness only due 
To the sweeter blood by the other side ; 
Her mother has been a thing complete. 
However she came to be so allied. 
And fair without, faithful within, 
Maud to him is nothing akin : 
Some peculiar mystic grace 
Made her only the child of her mother. 
And lieap'd the whole inherited sin 
On that huge scapeg<iat of the race, 
AH, all upon the brother. 



Peace, angry spirit, and let him be I 
Has not his sister smiled on me ? 



XIV. 



Maud has a garden of roses 
And lilies fair on a lawn ; 
There sho walks in her state 
And tends upon bed and bower 
And thither I climb'd at dawn 
And stood by her garden gate ; 
A lion ramps at the top. 
He is claspt by a passion-flower- 



143. 



Maud's own little oak-room 

(Which Maud, like a precious stone 

Set in the heart of the carven gloom, 

Lights with herself, when alone 

Siie sits by her music and books, 

And her brother lingers late 

With a roistering company) looks 

Upon Maud's own garden gate : 

And I thought as I stood, if a hand, as white 

As ocean-foam in the moon, were laid 

On the hasp of the window, and my Delight 

Had a sudden desire, like a glorious ghost, to 

glide. 
Like a beam of the seventh Heaven, down to 

my side. 
There were but a step to be made. 

3- 
The fancy flatter'd my mind, 
And agahi seem'd overbold ; 
Now I thouglit that she cared for me. 
Now I thought she was kind 
Only because she was cold. 



I heard no sound where I stood 

But the rivulet on from the lawn 

Running down to my own dark wood ; 

Or the voice of the long sea-wave asitswell'd 

Now and then in the dim-gray dawn ; 

But I look'd, and round, all round the house 

I beheld 
The death-white curtain drawn ; 
Kelt a horror over me creep. 
Prickle my skin and catch my breath, 
Knew that the death-white curtain meant but 

sleep. 
Yet I shudder'd and thought like a fool of the 

sleep of death. 



XV. 

So dark a mind within me dwells. 
And ! make myself such evil cheer, 

That if I be dear to some one else. 

Then some one else may have much to 
fear ; 

But if I be dear to some one else. 

Then I should be to myself more dear. 

Shall I not take care of all that I think. 

Yea ev'n of wretched meat and drink. 

If I be dear, 

If 1 be dear to some one else ? 



XVI. 



This lump of earth has left liis estate 
The lighter by the loss of his weight ; 
And so that he find what he went to seek. 
And fulsome Pleasure clog him, and drown 
His heart in the gross mud-honey of town, 



He may stay for a year who has gone for a 

week : 
But this is the day when I must speak. 
And I see my Oread coming down, 
O this is the day ! 

beautiful creature, what am I 
That I dare to look her way ; 
Think I may hold dominion sweet, 

Lord of the pulse that is lord of her breast, 
And dream of her beauty with tender dread. 
From the delicate Arab arch of her feet 
To the grace that, bright and light as the crest 
Of a peacock, sits on her shining head. 
And she knows it not : O, if she knew it. 
To know her beauty might half undo it. 

1 know it the one bright thing to save 
My yet young life in the wilds of Time, 
Perhaps from madness, perhaps from crime, 
Perhaps from a selfish grave. 



What, if she were fasten'd to this fool lord. 
Dare I bid her abide by her word ? 
Should 1 love her so well if she 
Hadg-'-en her word to a thing so low? 
Shall I love her as well if she 
Can break her word were it even for me? 
I trust that it is not so. 



Catch not my breath, O clamorous heart. 
Let not my tongue be a thrall to my eye, 
For I must tell her before we part, 
I must tell her, or die. 



XV IL 

Go not, happy day, 

From the shining fields. 
Go not, happy day. 

Till the maiden yields. 
Rosy is the West, 

Rosy is the South, 
Roses are her cheeks, 

And a rose her mouth. 
When the happy Yes 

Falters from her lips. 
Pass and blush the news 

O'er the blowing ships. 
Over blowing seas, 

Over seas at rest. 
Pass the happy news. 

Blush it thro' the West, 
Till the red man dance 

By his red cedar-tree, 
And the red man's babe 

Leap, beyond the sea. 
Blush from West to East, 

Blush from East to West, 
Till the West is East, 

Blush it thro' the West. 
Rosy is the West, 

Rosy is the South, 
Roses are her cheeks. 

And a rose her mouth. 



MAUD. 



X49 



XVIII. 



I HAVE led her home, my love, my only friend. 

There is none like lier, none. 

And never yet so warmly ran my blood 

And sweetly, on and on 

Calming itself to the long-wish'd-for end, 

Full to the banks, close on the promised good. 

2. 

None like her, none. 

Just now the dry-tongued laurel's pattering 

talk 
Seem'd her light foot along the garden walk, 
And shook my heart to think she comes once 

more ; 
But even then I heard her close the door. 
The gates of Heaven are closed, and she is 

gone. 



There is none like her, none. 

Nor will be when our summers have deceased. 

O, art thou sighing for Lebanon 

In the long breez; that streams to thy delicious 
East, 

Sighing for Lebanon, 

Dark cedar, tho' thy limbs have here in- 
creased. 

Upon a pastoral slope as fair. 

And looking to the South, and fed 

With honey'd rain and delicate air, 

And haunted by the starry head 

Of her whose gentle will has changed my 
fate, 

And made my life a perfumed altar-flame ; 

And over whom thy darkness must have 
spread 

With such delight as theirs of old, thy great 

Forefathers of the thornless garden, tliere 

Shadowing the snow-limb'd Eve from whom 
she ca.me. 



Here will I lie, while these long branches 

sway. 
And you fair stars that crown a happy day 
Go in and out as if at merry play, 
Who am no more so all forlorn. 
As when it seem'd far better to be born 
To labor and the mattock-liarden'd band. 
Than nursed at ease and brought to under- 
stand 
A sad astrology, the boundless plan 
That makes you tyrants in your iron skies. 
Innumerable, pitiless, passionless eyes, 
Cold fires, yet with power to burn and brand 
His nothingness into man. 



But now shine on, and what care T, 
Who in this stormy gulf have found a pearl 
The countercharm of space and hollow sky. 
And do accept my madness and would die 
To save from some sliglit shame one simple 
girl. 



6. 



Would die ; for sullen seeming Death may 
give ? 

More life to Love than is or ever was 
In our low world, where yet 't is sweet to live. 
Let iio one ask me how it came to pass ; 
It seems that I am happy, that to me 
A livelier emerald twinkles in the grass, 
A purer sapphire melts into the sea. 



Not die ; but live a life of truest breath. 

And teach true life to fight willi mortal j 
wriJUgs. 

O, why should Love, like men in drinking- 
songs. 

Spice his fair banquet with the dust of death ? 

Make answer, Maud my bliss. 

Maud made my Maud by that long lover's 
kiss, 

Life of my life, wilt thou not answer this? 

" The dusky strand of Death inwoven here 

With dear Love's tie, makes Love himself 
more dear." 



Is that enchanted moan only the swell 
Ofjhe long waves that roll in yonder bay ? 
And hark the clock within, the silver knell 
Of twelve sweet hours that past in bridal 

white. 
And died to live, long as my pulses play : 
I5ut now by this my love has closed her sight 
And given false death her hand, and stol'a 

away 
To dreamful wastes where footless fancies 

dwell 
Among the fragments of the golden day. 
May nothing there hermaiden grace affright I 
Uear heart, I feel with thee the drowsy spell. 
My bride to be, my evermore delight. 
My own heart's heart and ownest own fare- 
well ; 
It is but for a little space I go 
.'Xnd ye meanwhile far over moor and fell 
ISeat to the noiseless music of the night ! 
Has our whole earth gone nearer to the glow 
(Jf your soft splendors that you look so bright? 
/ have clinib'd nearer out of lonely Hell. 
IJt-at, happy stars, timing with things below, 
Heat with my heart more blest than heart can 

tell, 
niest, but for some dark undercurrent woe 
That seems to draw — but it shall not be so : 
Lot all be well, be well. 



XIX. 



Her brother is coming back to-night, 
Breaking up my dream of delight. 



My dream ? do I dream of bliss? 
I have walk'd awake with Truth. 
O when did a morning shine 



15° 



MAUD. 



So rich in atonement as this 

For my dark-dawning youth, 

Darkeu'd watching a mother decline 

And that dead man at lier heart and mine : 

For who was left to watch her but I ? 

Yet so did 1 let my freshness die. 



I trust that I did not talk 

To gentle Maud in our walk 

(For often in lonely wanderings 

I have cursed him even to lifeless things) 

But I trust that I did not talk. 

Not touch on her father's sin : 

1 am sure I did but speak 

Of my mother's faded cheek 

When it slowly grew so thin, _ 

That I felt she was slowly dying 

Vext with lawyers and harass'd with debt : 

For how often I caught her with eyes all wet, 

Shaking her head at her son and sighing 

A world of trouble within 1 



And Maud too, Maud was moved 

To speak of the mother she loved 

As one scarce less forlorn, 

Dying abroad and it seems apart 

From him who had ceased to share her heart. 

And ever mourning over the feud, 

The household Fury sprinkled with blood 

By which our houses are torn ; 

How strange was what she said. 

When only Maud and the brother 

Hung over her dying bed, — 

That Maud's dark father and mine 

Had bound us one to the other. 

Betrothed us over their wine 

On the day when Maud was born ; 

Seal'd her mine from her fir>t sweet breath. 

Mine, mine by a right, from birth till death. 

Mine, mine — our fathers have sw orn. 

S- 
But the true blood spilt had in it a heat 
To dissolve the precious seal on a bond. 
That, if left uncancell'd, had been so sweet : 
And none of us thought of a something 

beyond, 
A desire that awoke in the heart of the child, 
As it were a duty done to the tomb. 
To be friends for her sake, to be reconciled ; 
And I was cursing them and my doom. 
And letting a dangerous thought run wild 
While often abroad in the fragrant gloom 
Of foreign churches, — I see her there. 
Bright English lily, breathing a prayer 
To be friends, to be reconciled ! 



But then what a flint is he I 
Abroad, at Florence, at Rome, 
I find whenever she touch'd on me 
This brotlierhad laugh'd her dowMi, 
And at last, wlieii each came home. 
He had darken'd into a frown, 



Chid her, and forbid her to speak 
To me, her friend of the years before ; 
And this was what had redden'd her cheek, 
When I bow'd to her on the moor. 



Yet Maud, altho' not blind 

To the faults of his heart and mind, 

I see she cannot but love him. 

And says he is rough but kind. 

And wishes me to approve him, 

And tells me, when she lay 

Sick once, with a fear of worse. 

That he left his wine and horses and play. 

Sat with hei-, read to her, night and day. 

And tended her like a nurse. 

8. 
Kind ? but the deathbed desire 
Spurn'd by this heir of the liar — 
Rough but kind? yet 1 know 
He has plotted against me in this, 
That he plots against me still. 
Kind to Maud ? that were not amiss. 
Well, rough but kind ; why, let it be so : 
For shall not Maud have her will ? 



For, Maud, so tender and true. 
As long as my life endures 
I feel 1 shall owe you a debt. 
That I never can hope to pay ; 
And if ever I should forget 
That I owe this debt to you 
And for your sweet sake to yours ; 
O then, what then shall I say ? — 
If ever I sho7ild hrg£\.. 
May God make me more wretched 
Than ever I have been yet I 



So now I have sworn to bury 

All this dead body of hate, 

I feel so free and so clear 

By the loss of that dead weight. 

That I should grow light-headed, I fear, 

Fantastically merry ; 

But that her brother conies, like a blight 

On my fresh hope, to the Hall to-night. 



XX. 



Strange, that I felt so gay, 

Strange, that I tried to-day 

To beguile her melancholy ; 

The Sultan, as we name hini, — 

She did not wish to blame him — 

But he vext her and perplext her 

With his worldly talk and folly : 

Was it gentle to reprove her 

For stealing out of view 

From a little lazy lover 

Who but claims her as his due? 

Or for chilling his caresses 

Hy the coldness of her manners. 

Nay, the plainness of her dresses ? 



MAUD. 



iSi 



f- 



Now I know her but in two, 
Nor can pronounce upon it 
If one should ask nie v\liether 
The habit, hat, ami feather. 
Or the frock and gypsy bonnet 
Be the neater and completer ; 
For nothing can be sweeter 
Thau maiden Maud in either. 



But to-morrow, if we live. 
Our ponderous squire will give 
A grand political dinner 
To half the squirelings near ; 
And Maud will wear her jewels, 
And the bird of prey will hover. 
And the titmouse hope to win her 
With his chirrup at her ear. 



A grand political dinner 

To the men of many acres, 

A gathering of the Tory, 

A dinner and then a dance 

For the maids and marriage-makers, 

And every eye but mine will glance 

At Maud in all her glory. 

4- 
For I am not invited. 
But, with the Sultan's pardon, 
I am all as well delighted. 
For I know her own rose-garden. 
And mean to linger in it 
Till the dancing will be over: 
And then, O then, come out to me 
For a minute, but for a minute, 
Come out to your own true lover, 
That your true lover may see 
Your glory also, and render 
All homage to his own darling, 
Queen Maud in all her splendor. 



XXI. 

Rivulet crossing my ground. 

And bringing me down from the Hall 

This garden-rose that I found, 

F'orgetful of Maud and me. 

And lost in trouble and moving round 

Here at the head of a tinkling fall, 

And trying to pass to the sea ; 

O Rivulet, born at the Hall, 

My Maud has sent it by thee 

(If I read her sweet will right) 

On a blushing mission to me. 

Saying in odor and color, " Ah, be 

Among tlie roses to-night." 



XXII. 



Come into the garden, Maud, 

For the black bat, night, has flown. 

Come into the garden, Maud, 
I am here at the gate atone ; 



And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, 
And the musk of the roses blown. 



For a breeze of morning moves. 
And the planet of Love is on high. 

Beginning to faint in the light tliat she loves 
On a bed of daffodil sky. 

To faint in the light of the sun she loves, 
To faint in his light, and to die. 



All night have the roses heard 

The flute, violin, bassoon ; 
All night has the casement jessamine stirr'd 

To the dancers dancing in tune ; 
Till a silence fell with the waking bird. 

And a hush with the setting moon. 

4- 
I said to the lily, " There is but one 

With whom she has heart to be gay. 
When will the dancers leave her alone ? 

She is weary of dance and play." 
Now half to the setting moon are gone, 

And half to the rising day ; 
Low on the sand and loud on the stone 
The last wheel echoes away. 



I said to the rose, " The brief night goes 

hi babble and revel and wine. 
O young lord-lover, what sighs are those. 

For one that will never be thine ? 
But mine, but mine," so f sware to the rose, 

" For ever and ever, mine." 



And the soul of the rose went into my blood. 
As the music clash'd in the hall ; 

And long by the garden lake I stood. 
For I heard your rivulet fall 

P'rom the lake to the meadow and on to the 
wood. 
Our wood, that is dearer than all ; 



From the meadow your walks have left so 

sweet 
That whenever a March-wind sighs 
He sets the jewel-print of your feet 

In violets blue as your eyes. 
To the woody hollows in which we meet 

And the valleys of Paradise. 



The slender acacia would not shake 

One long milk-bloom on the tree ; 
The white lake-blossom fell into the lake. 

As the pimpernel dozed on the lea ; 
But the rose was awake all night for youi 
sake. 

Knowing your promise to me : 
The lilies and roses were all awake. 

They sigh'd for the dawn and thee. 



IS2 



MAUD. 



Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls, 
Come hither, the dances are done, 

In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls, 
(Jueen lily and rose in one ; 

Slune out, little head, sunning over with 
curls. 
To the flowers, and be their sun. 



There has fallen a splendid tear 

From the passion-flower at the gate. 
She is coming, my dove, my dear ; 

She is coming, my life, my fate ; 
'I'he red rose cries, " She is near, she is 
near " ; 

And the wliite rose weeps, " She is late " ; 
The larkspur listens, " I hear, 1 hear " ; 

And the lily whispers, " 1 wait." 



She is coming, my own, my sweet ; 

Were it ever so airy a tread. 
My heart would hear her and beat. 

Were it earth in an earthy bed ; 
My dust would hear her and beat, 

Had I lain for a century dead : 
Would start and tremble under her feet. 

And blossom in purple and red. 



XXIII. 



" The fault was mine, the fault was mine " — 
Why am I sitting here so stunn'd and still. 
Plucking the harmless wild-flower on the 

hill? — 
It is this guilty hand ! — 
And there rises ever a passionate cry 
From imderneath in the darkening land — 
What is it, that has been done? 
O dawn of Eden bright over earth and sky. 
The fires of Hell brake out of thy rising 

sun, 
The fires of Hell and of Hate : 
For she, sweet soul, had hardly spoken a 

word. 
When her brother ran in his rage to the gate. 
He came with the babe-faced lord ; 
Heap'd on her terms of disgrace. 
And while she wept, and I strove to be cool, 
He fiercely gave me the lie, 
Till I with as fierce an anger spoke. 
And he struck me, madman, over the face, 
Struck me before the languid fool. 
Who was gaping and grinning by : 
Struck for himself an evil stroke : 
Wrought for his house an irredeemable woe ; 
For front to front in an hour we stood. 
And a million horrible bellowing echoes 

broke 
From theredrlbb'dhollowbehind the wood, 
And thunder'd up into Heaven the Christ- 
less code, 
That must have life for a blow. 



Ever and ever afresh they seem'u to grow. 
Was it he lay there with a fading eye? 
" 'I'he fault was mine," he whisper'd, " fly I " 
Then glided out of the joyous wood 
The ghastly Wraith of one that I know ; 
And there rang on a sudden a passional* 

cry, 
A cry for a brother's blood : 
It will ring in my heart and my ears, till I 

die, till I die. 



Is it gone ? my pulses beat — 

What was it? a lying trick of the brain? 

Yet I thought I saw her stand, 

A shadow there at my feet. 

High over the shadowy land. 

It is gone ; and the heavens fall in a gentle 
rain. 

When they should burst and drown with del- 
uging storms 

The feeble vassals of wine and anger and 
lust, 

The little hearts that know not how to for- 
give : 

Arise, my God, and strike, for we hold Thee 
just, 

Strike dead the whole weak race of venom- 
ous worms. 

That sting each other here in the dust ; 

We are not worthy to live. 



XXIV. 



See what a lovely shell. 
Small and pure as a pearl, 
Lying close to my foot, 
Frail, but a work divine, 
Made so fairily well 
With delicate spire and whorl, 
How exquisitely minute, 
A miracle of design ! 



What is it? a learned man 
Could give it a clumsy name. 
Let him name it who can, 
The beauty would be the same. 



The tiny cell is forlorn. 
Void of the little living will 
That made it stir on the shore. 
Did he stand at the diamond door 
Of his house in a rainbow frill ? 
Did he push, when he was uncurl'd, 
A golden foot or a fairy horn 
Thro' his dim water-world? 



Slight, to be crush'd with a tap 
Of my finger nail on the sand, 
.Small, but a work divine. 
Frail, but of force to withstand, 
Year upon year, the shock 



MAUD. 



»SS 



Of cataract seas that snap 
The three decker's oaken spine 
Athwart the ledges of rock, 
Here on the Breton strand ! 

5- 
Breton, not Briton ; here 
Like a shipwreck'd man on a coast 
Of ancient fable and fear, — 
Plagued with a flitting to and fro, 
A disease, a hard mechanic ghost 
That never came from on high 
Nor ever arose from below. 
But only moves with the moving eye. 
Flying along the land and the main, - 
Why should it look like Maud? 
Am I to be overawed 
By what I cannot but know 
Is a juggle born of the brain ? 



Back from the Breton coast, 

Sick of a nameless fear. 

Back to the dark sea-line 

Looking, thinking of all I have lost ; 

An old song vexes my ear ; 

But that of Lamech is mine. 



For years, a measureless ill. 
For years, forever, to part, — 
But she, she would love me still ; 
And as long, O God, as she 
Have a grain of love for nie, 
So long, no doubt, no doubt. 
Shall I nurse in my dark heart. 
However weary, a sjiark of will 
Not to be trampled out. 



Strange, that the mind, when frauglit 

With a passion so intense 

One would think that it well 

Might drown all lite in the eye, — 

That it should, by beii.g so overwrought. 

Suddenly strike on a sharper sense 

For a shell, or a flower, little things 

Which else would have been past by ! 

And now I remember, I, 

Wlien he lay dying there, 

I noticed one of his many rings 

(For he had many, poor worm) and thought 

It is his mother's hair. 



Who knows if he be dead ? 

Whether I need have fled? 

Am 1 guilty of blood? 

However this may be, 

Comfort her, comfort her, all things good. 

While I am over the sea ! 

Let me and my passionate love go by. 

But speak to her all things holy and high, 

Whatever happen to me ! 

Me and ray harmful love go by ; 

But come to her wakiucr, find her asleep. 

Powers of the height, Powers of the deep, 

And comfort her iho' 1 dia 



XXV. 



Courage, poor heart of stone I 

1 will not nsk thee why 

'I'hou canst not understand 

That thou art left forever alone : 

Courage, poor stupid heart of stone. ^ 

Or if I ask thee why. 

Care not thou to reply : 

She is but dead, and the time is at hand 

When thou shalt more than die. 



XXVL 



O THAT 't were possible 
After long grief and pain 
To find the arms of my true love 
Round me once again ! 



When I was wont to meet her 
In the silent woody places 
By the home that gave me birth. 
We stood tranced in long embraces 
Mixt with kisses sweeter sweeter 
Than anything on earth. 

3- 

A shadow flits before me. 

Not thou, but like to thee ; 

Ah Christ, that it were possible 

For one short hour to see 

The souls we loved, that they might tell us 

What and where they be. 



It leads me forth at evening. 

It lightly winds and steals 

In a cold white robe before me. 

When all my spirit reels 

At the shouts, the leagues of lights, 

And the roaring of the wheels. 



Half the night I waste in sighs, 
Half in dreams I sorrow after 
The delight of early skies; 
In a wakeful doze I sorrow 
For the hand, the lips, the eyes, 
For the meeting of the morrow. 
The delight of happy laughter. 
The delight of low replies. 

6. 
'T is a morning pure and sweet. 
And a dewy splendor falls 
On the little flower that clings 
To the turrets and the walls ; 
'T is a morning pure and sweet, 
And the light and shadow fleet ; 
She is walking in the meadow, 
And the woodland echo rings ; 
In a moment we shall meet; 
She is singing in the meadow. 
And the rivulet at her feet 



MAUD. 



Ripples on in light and shadow 
To the ballad that she sings. 



Do I hear her sing as of old, 

My bird with the shining head, 

My own dove with the tender eye? 

But there rings on a sudden a passionate cry, 

'I'here is some one dying or dead. 

And a sullen thunder is roH'd ; 

For a tumult shakes the city. 

And I wake, my dream is tied : 

In the shuddering dawn, behold. 

Without knowledge, without pity, 

V<y the curtains of my bed 

That abiding phantom cold. 



Get thee hence, nor come again, 
Mix not memory with doubt. 
Pass, thou deathlike type of pain. 
Pass and cease to move about, 
'T is the blot upon the brain 
That will show itself without. 



Then I rise, the eavedrops fall, 
And the yellow vapors choke 
The great city sounding wide ; 
The day comes, a dull red ball 
Wrapt in drifts of lurid smoke 
On the misty river-tide. 



Thro' the hubbub of the market 

1 steal, a wasted frame. 

It crosses here, it crosses there. 

Thro' all that crowd confused and ibud. 

The shadow still the same ; 

And on my heavy eyelids 

My anguish hangs like shame. 



Alas for her that met me. 

That heard me softly call. 

Came glimmering thro' the laurels 

At the quiet evenfall, 

In the garden by the turrets 

Of the old manorial hall. 



Would the happy spirit descend. 
From the realms of light and song, 
i In the chamber or the street, 

!As she looks among the blest. 
Should I fear to greet my friend 
Or to say " forgive the wrong," 
Or to ask her, " take me sweet, 
To the regions of thy rest " ? 

'3- 
But the broad light glares and beats. 
And the shadow flits and fleets 
And will not let me be ; 
And I loathe the squares and streets. 
And the faces that one lueets, 



Hearts with no love for me : 
Always I long to creep 
Into some still cavern deep. 
There to weep, and weep, and weep 
My whole soul out to thee. 



XXVII. 



Dead, long dead, 

Long dead ! 

And my heart is a handful of dust, 

And the wheels go over my head. 

And my bones are shaken with pain. 

For into a shallow grave they are thrust. 

Only a yard beneath the street. 

And the hoofs of the horses beat, beat, 

The hoofs of the horses beat. 

Beat into my scalp and my brain. 

With never an end to the stream of passing 

feet. 
Driving, hurr5'ing, marrying, burying, 
Clamor and rumble, and ringing and clatter, 
And here beneath it is all as bad. 
For I thought the dead had peace, but it is 

not so ; 
To have no peace in the grave, is that not 

sad? 
But up and down and to and fro. 
Ever about me the dead men go : 
And then to hear a dead man chatter 
Is enough to drive one mad. 



Wretchedest age, since Time began, 

1 hey cannot even bury a man ; 

And tho' we paid our tithes in the days that 

are gone. 
Not a bell was rung, not a prayer was read ; 
It is that which makes us loud in the world 

of the dead ; 
There is none that does his work, not one ; 
A touch of their office might have sufficed. 
But the churchmen fain would kill their 

church. 
As the churches have kill'd their Christ. 



See, there is one of us sobbing, 

No limit to his distress ; 

And another, a lord of all things, praying 

To his own great self, as I guess ; 

And another, a statesman there, betraying 

His party-secret, fool, to the press ; 

And yonder a vile physician, blabbing 

The case of his patient, — all for what? 

To tickle the maggot born in an empty head, 

And wheedle a world that loves him not, 

For it is but a world of the dead. 



Nothing but idiot gabble ! 

For the prophecy given of old 

And then not understood, 

Has come to pass as foretold ; 

Not let any man think for the public good, 



MAUD. 



But babble, merely for babble. 

For I never whisper'd a private affair 

Within the hearing of cat or mmise, 

No, not to m>fself in the closet alone. 

But I heard it shouted at once lioai the top 

of the house ; 
Everything came to be known : 
Who told him we were there? 



Not that gray old wolf, for he came not back 
From the wilderness, full of wolves, where 

he used to lie ; 
He has gather'd the bones for his o'ergrown 

whelp to crack ; 
Crack them now for yourself, and howl, and 

die. 

6. 
Prophet, curse me the blabbing lip. 
And curse me the British vermin, the rat ; 
I know not whether he came in the Hanover 

ship. 
But I know that he lies and listens mute 
In an ancient mansion's crannies and holes : 
Arsenic, arsenic, sure, would do it. 
Except that now we poison our babes, poor 

souls ! 
It is all used up for that. 



Tell him now : she is standing here at my 

head ; 
Not beautiful now, not even kind; 
He may take her now ; for she never speaks 

her mind. 
But is ever the one thing silent here. 
She is not of us, as I divine ; 
She comes from another stiller world of the 

dead. 
Stiller, not fairer than mine. 



But I know where a garden grows. 

Fairer than aught in the world beside, 

All made up of the lily and rose 

That blow by night, when the season is good. 

To the sound of dancing music and flutes : 

It is only flowers, they had no fruits. 

And I almost fear they are not roses, but 

blood ; 
For the keeper was one, so full of pride, 
He linkt a dead man there to a spectral 

bride : 
For he, if he had not been a Sultan of brutes, 
Would he have that hole in his side ? 



But what will the old man say? 
He laid a cruel snare in a pit 
To catch a friend of mine one stormy day ; 
Yet now I could even weep to think of it ; 
For what will the old man say 
When he comes to the second corpse in the 
pit? 

lO. 

Friend, to be struck by the public foe, 
Then to strike him and lay him low. 



That were a public merit, far. 
Whatever the Quaker holds, from sin ; 
IJut the red life spilt for a private blow — 
F swear to you, lawful and lawless war 
Are scarcely even akin. 



me, why have they not buried me deep 

enough ? 
Is it kind to have made me a grave so rough, 
Me, that was never a quiet sleeper? 
Maybe still I am but half-dead ; 
Then I cannot be wholly dumb ; 

1 will cry to tlie steps above my head. 

And somebody, surely, some kind heart will 

come 
To bury me, bury me 
Deeper, ever so little deeper. 



XXVIII. 



My life has crept so long on a broken wing 
Thro' ceils of madness, haunts of horror and 

fear. 
That I come to be grateful at last for a little 

thing: 
My mood is changed, for it fell at a time of 

year 
When the face of night is fair on the dewy 

downs, 
And the shining daffodil dies, and the Chari- 
oteer 
And starry Gemini hang like glorious crowns 
Over Orion's grave low down in the west, 
That like a silent lightning tnider the stars 
She seem'd to divide in a dream from a band 

of the blest, 
And spoke of a hope for the world in the 

coming wars — 
" And in that hope, dear soul, let trouble 

have rest. 
Knowing I tarry for thee," and pointed to 

Mars 
As he glow'd like a ruddy shield on tlie 

Lion's breast. 



And it was but a dream, yet it yielded a dear 

delight 
To have look'd, tho' but in a dream, upon 

eyes so fair. 
That had been in a weary world my one thing 

bright ; 
And it was but a dream, yet it lighten'd my 

despair 
When I thought that a war would arise in 

defence of the right. 
That an iron tyranny now should bend or 

cease. 
The glory of manhood stand on his ancient 

height. 
Nor Britain's one sole God be the million- 

naire : 
No more shall commerce be all in all, and 

Peace 



156 



THE BROOK. 



Pipe on her pastoral hillock a languid note, 

And watch her harvest ripen, her herd in- 
crease. 

Nor the cannon-bullet rust on a slothful 
shore, 

And the cobweb woven across the cannon's 
throat 

Shall shake its threaded tears in the wind no 
more. 



And as months ran on and rumor of battle 

grew, 
" It is time, it is time, O passionate heart," 

said I 
(For I cleaved to a cause that I felt to be pure 

and true), 
" It is time, O passionate heart and morbid 

eye. 
That old hysterical mock-disease should 

die." 
And I stood on a giant deck and mix'd my 

breath 
With a loyal people shouting a battle cry. 
Till I saw the dreary phantom arise and fly 
Far into the North, and battle, and seas of 

death. 

4- 
Let it go or stay, so I wake to the higher aims 
Of a land that has lost for a little her lust of 

gold. 
And love of a peace that was full of wrongs 

and shames. 
Horrible, hateful, monstrous, not to be told ; 
And hail once more to the banner of battle 

unroll'd ! 
Tho* many a light shall darken, and many 

shall weep 
For those that are crush'd in the clash of jar- 
ring claims. 
Yet God's just wrath shall be wreak 'd on a 

giant liar : 
And many a darkness into the light shall 

leap. 
And shine in the sudden making of splendid 

names. 
And noble thought be freer under the sun. 
And the heart of a people beat with one de- 
sire ; 
For the peace, that I deem'd no peace, is 

over and done. 
And now by the side of the Black and the 

Baltic deep, 
And deathful-grinning mouths of the fortress 

flames 
The blood-red blossom of war with a heart 

of fire. 



Let it flame or fade, and the war roll down 

like a vv-ind. 
We have proved we have hearts in a cause, 

we are noble still. 
And myself have awaked, as it seems, to the 

better mind ; 
It is better to fight for the good, than to rail 

at the ill ; 



I have felt with my native land, I am one 

with my kind, 
I embrace the purpose of God, and the doom 

assign'd. 

THE BROOK; 

AN IDYL. 

" Here, by this brook, we parted ; I to the 
East 

And he for Italy — too late — too late : 

One whom the strong sons of the world de- 
spise ; 

For lucky rhymes to him were scrip and 
share. 

And mellow metres more than cent for cent ; 

Nor could he understand how money breeds, 

Thought it a dead thing ; yet himself could 
make 

The thing that is not as the thing that is. 

had he lived ! In our school books we say, 
Of those that held their heads above the 

crowd, 
They flourish'd then or then ; but life in him 
Could scarce be said to flourish, only touth'd 
On such a time as goes before the leaf. 
When all the wood stands in a mist of green. 
And nothing perfect : yet thebmok he Icved, 
For which, in branding summers of Bengal, 
Or ev'n the sweet half-English Neilgherry 

air, 

1 panted, seems, as I re-listen to it. 
Prattling the primrose fancies of the boy. 
To me that loved him ; for ' O brook,' he 

says, 
' O babbling brook,' says Edmund in his 

rhyme, 
' Whence come you ? ' and the brook, why 

not ? replies. 

I come from haunts of coot and hem, 

I make a sudden sally 
And sparkle out among the fern, 

To bicker down a valley. 

By thirty hills I hurry down. 

Or slip between the ridges. 
By twenty thorps, a little town, 

And half a hundred bridges. 

Till last by Philip's farm I flow 
To join the brimming river. 

For men may con.e and men may go, 
But I go on forever. 

" Poor lad, he died at Florence, quite worn 

out. 
Travelling to Naples. There is Damley 

bridge, _ ' ^ 

It has more ivy ; there the river ; and there 
Stands Philip's farm where brook and rivef 

meet. 

I chatter over stony ways. 

In little sharps and trebles. 
I bubble into eddying bays, 

I babble ou the pebbles. 



THE BROOK. 



'57 



With many a curve my banks I fret 
By many a field and fallow, 

And man>; a fairy foreland set 
With willow-weed and mallow. 

I chatter, chatter, as I flow 
To join the brimming river. 

For men may come and men may go. 
But I go on forever. 

" But Philip chatter'd more than brook or 
bird ; 
Old Philip : all .about the fields you caught 

His weary daylong chirping, like the dry 
High-elbow'd grigs that leap in summer grass. 

I wind about, and in and out. 
With here a blossom sailing. 

And here and there a lusty trout, 
And here and there a grayling, 

And here and there a foamy flake 

Upon me, as I travel 
With many a silvery waterbreak 

Above the golden gravel, 

And draw them all along, and flow 
To join the brimming river. 

For men may come and men may go. 
But 1 go on forever. 

"O darling Katie Willows, his one child ! 
A maiden of our century, yet most meek ; 
A daughter of our meadows, yet not coarse ; 
Straight, but as lissome as a hazel wand ; 
Her eyes a bashful az.ure, and her hair 
In gloss and hue the chestnut, when the shell 
Divides threefold to show the fruit within. 

" Sweet Katie, once I did her a good turn. 
Her and her far-off cousin and betrothed, 
James Willows, of one name and heart with 

her. 
For here I came, twenty years back, — the 

week 
Before I parted with poor Edmund ; crost 
By that old bridge which, half in ruins then. 
Still makes a hoary eyebrow for the gleam 
Beyond it, where the waters marry — crost, 
Whistling a random bar of Bonny Doon, 
And push'd at Philip's garden-gate. The 

gate. 
Half-parted from a we.ak and scolding hinge. 
Stuck ; and he clamor'd from a casement, 

' run ' 
To Katie somewhere in the walks below, 
' Run, Katie ! ' Kaiie never ran : she moved 
To meet me, windmgundei woodbinehowers, 
A little flntter'd with her eyelids down. 
Fresh appl«-blossom, blushing for a boon. 

" What was it ? less of sentiment than 
sense 
Had Katie ; not illiterate ; neither one 
Who dabbling in the fount of fictive tears. 
And nursed by mealy-mouthed philanthro- 
pies. 
Divorce the Feeling from her mate the Deed. 



" She told me. She and James had quar- 

rell'd. Why ? 
What cause of quarrel ? None, she said, no 

cause ; 
James had no cause : but when I prest the 

cause, 
I learnt that James had flickering jealousies 
Which anger'd her. Who anger'd James? 1 

said. 
But Katie snatch'd her eyes at once from 

mine. 
And sketching with her slender-pointed foot 
Some figure like a wizard's pentagram 
On garden gravel, let my query pass 
Unciaim'd, in flushing silence, till I ask'd 
If James were coming. 'Coming everyday,' 
She answer'd, ' ever longing to explain, 
But evermore her father came across 
With some long-winded tale, and broke him 

short ; 
And James departed vext with him and her ' 
How could I help her? 'Would 1 — was it 

wrong ? ' 
(Claspt hands and that petitionary grace 
Of sweet seventeen subdued me ei^e she 

spoke) 
' O would I take her father for one hour. 
For one half-hour, and let him talk to me ! ' 
And even while she spoke, I saw where 

Jaines 
Made towards us, like a wader in the surf. 
Beyond the brook, waist-deep in meadow- 
sweet. 

•' O Katie, what I suffer'd for your sake ! 
For in I went and call'd old Philip out 
To show the farm r full willingly he rose : 
He led me thro' the short sweet-smelling 

lanes 
Of his wheat suburb, babbling as he went. 
He praised his land, his horses, his machines; 
He praised his ploughs, his cows, his hogs, 

his dogs ; 
He praised his hens, his geese, his guinea- 
hens ; 
His pigeons, who in session on their roofs 
Approved him. bowing at their own deserts : 
Then from the plaintive mother's teat.he took 
Her blind and shuddering puppies, naming 

each. 
And naming those, his friends, for whom 

they were : 
Then crost the common into Damley chase 
Toshow Sir Arthur's deer. In copse and fern 
Twinkled the innumerable ear and tail. 
Then, seated on a serpent-rooted beech. 
He pointed out a pasturing colt, and said : 
' That was the four-year-old I sold the 

squire.' 
And there he told a long, long-winded tale 
Of how the squire had seen the colt at grass, 
And how it was the thing his daughter wish'd, 
And how he sent the bailiff to the farm 
To learn the price, and what the price he 

ask'd, 
And how the bailiff swore that he was mad, 
B;it he stood firm ; and so the matter hung; 
He gave them line : and five days after that 



iS8 



THE LETTERS. 



He met the bailiff at the Golden Fleece, 
Who then and there had olier'd something 

more, 
But lie stood firm ; and so the matter hung ; 
He knew the man ; the colt would letch Us 

price ; 
He gave them line : and how by chance at 

last 
(It might be May or April, he forgot. 
The last of April or the first of May) 
He found tlie bailiff riding by the larm, 
And, talking from the point, he drew him in, 
And there he mellow'd all his heart with ale, 
Until they closed a bargain, hand in hand. 

" Then, while I breathed in sight of haven, 
he, 
Poor fellow, could he.hel[)it? recommenced. 
And ran thro' all the coltish chronicle. 
Wild Will, lilack Bess, Tantivy, Tallyho, 
■Reform, White Rose, Bellerophon, the Jilt, 
Arbaces and Phenomenon, and the rest, 
Till, not to die a listener, 1 arose. 
And with me Philip, talking still ; and so 
We turn'd our foreheads from the falling sun, 
And following our own shadows thrice as lung 
As when they foUow'd us from Philip's door. 
Arrived, and found the sun of sweet content 
Re-risen in Katie's eyes, and all things well. 

I steal by lawns and grassy plots, 

I slide by hazel covers ; 
I move the sweet forget-me-nots 

That grow for happy lovers. 

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance. 
Among my skimming swallows ; 

I make the netted sunbeam dance 
Against my sandy shallows. 

I murmur under moon and stars 

In brambly wildernesses ; 
1 linger by my shingly bars ; 

I loiter round my cresses ; 

And out again I curve and flow 

To join the brimming river. 
For men may come and men may go, 

But I go on forever. 

Yes, men may come and go ; and these are 

gone. 
All gone. My dearest brother, Edmund, 

sleejis. 
Not by the well-known stream and rustic 

spire. 
But unfamiliar Arno, and the dome 
Of Brnnelleschi ; sleeps in peace : and he. 
Poor Philip, of all his lavish waste of words 
Remains the lean P. W. on his tomb : 
1 scraped the lichen from it : Katie walks 
By the long wash of Australasian seas 
Far off, and holds her head to other stars, 
And breathes in converse seasons. All are 

gone." 

So Lawrence Aylmer, seated on a stile 
In the long hedge, and rolling in his mind 



Old waifs of rhyme, and bowing o'er the brook 
A tonsured head in middle age forlorn, 
Mused, and was mute. On a sudden a low 

breath 
Of tender air made tremble in the hedge 
The fragile bindweed-bells and briony rings; 
And he look'd up. There stood a'maiden 

near. 
Waiting to pass. In much amaze he stared 
On eyes a bashful azure, and on hair 
In gloss and hue the chestnut, when the shell 
Divides threefold to show the fruit within : 
Then, wondering, ask'd her, " Are you from 

the farm ? " 
" Yes," answer'd she. " Pray stay a little: 

pardon me ; 
What do they call you? " "Katie." "That 

were strange. 
What surname?" "Willows." "No!" 

" That is my name." 
" Indeed ! " and here he look'd so self per- 

plext. 
That Katie laugh'd, and laughing blush'd, 

till he 
Laugh'd also, but as one before he wakes, 
Who feels a glimmering strangeness in his 

dream. 
Then looking at her ; " Too happy fresh and 

fair. 
Too fresh and fair in our sad world's besx 

bloom. 
To be the ghost of one who bore your name 
About these meadows, twenty years ago." 

" Have yon not heard?" said Katie, "we 
came back. 
We bought the farm we tenanted before. 
Am I so like her ? so they said on board. 
Sir, if you knew her in her English days, 
My mother, as it seems you did, the days 
That most she loves to talk of, come with ma. 
My brother James is in the harvest-field : 
But she — you will be welcome — O, come 
in 1 " 



THE LETTERS. 



Still on the tower stood the vane, 

A black yew glooin'd the stagnant air, 
I peer'd athwart the chancel pane 

And saw the altar cold and bare. 
A clog of lead was round my feet, 

A band of pain across my brow ; 
" Cold altar. Heaven and earth shall meet 

Before you hear my marriage vow." 



I turn'd and humm'd a bitter song 

That mock'd the wholesome human heart, 
And then we met in wrath and wrong. 

We met, but only meant to part. 
Full cold my greeting was and dry ; 

She faintly smiled, she hardly moved; 
I saw with half-unconscious eye 

She wore the colors 1 approved. 



ODE ON THE DMATH OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. 159 



She took the little ivory chest, 

With half a sigh she turn'd the key, 
Then raised her head with lips cumprest. 

And gave my letters back to me. 
And gave the trinkets and the rings, 

My'gifts, when gifts of mine could please; 
As looks a father on the things 

Of his dead son, I look'd on these. 



She told me all her friends had said ; 

I raged against the public liar : 
She talk'd as if her love were dead, 

But in my words were seeds of fire. 
" No more of love ; your sex is known 

I never will be twice deceived. 
Henceforth I trust the man alone, 

The woman cannot be believed. 



"Thro' slander, meanest spawn of Hell 

(And women's slander is the worst). 
And you, whom once I lov'd so well. 

Thro' you, my life will be accurst." 
I spoke with heart, and heat and force, 

I shook her breast with vague alarms — 
Like torrents from a mountain source 

We rush'd into each other's arms. 



We parted : sweetly gleam'd the stars. 

And sweet the vapor-braided blue, 
Low breezes fann'd the belfry bars, 

As homeward by the church 1 drew. 
The very graves appear'd to smile, 

So fresh they rose in shadow'd swells ; 
" Dark porch," I said, " and silent aisle 

There comes a sound of marriage bells.' 



ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE 
DUKE OF WELLINGTON. 



Bury the Great Duke 

With an empire's lamentation, 
Let us bury the Great Duke 

To the noise of the mourning of a mighty 
nation. 
Mourning when their leaders fall, 
W.irriors carry the warrior's pall, 
And sorrow darkens hamlet and hall. 



Where shall we lay the man whom we de- 
plore? 
Here, in streaming London's central roar. 
Let the sound of those he wrought for, 
And the feet of those he fought for. 
Echo round his bones forevermore. 

3- 
Lead out the pacjeant : sad and slow, 
As fits ail universal woe. 



Let the long long procession go. 
And let the sorrowing crowd about it grow, 
And let the mournful martial music blow; 
The last great Englislimau is low. 



Mourn, for to us he seems the last. 
Remembering all his greatness in the Past. 
No more in soldier fashion will he greet 
With lifted hand the gazer in the street. 
O friends, our chief state-oracle is dead : 
Mourn for the man of long-enduring blood. 
The statesman-warrior, moderate, resolute, 
Whole in himself, a common good. 
Mourn for the man of amplest iutiuence. 
Yet clearest of ambitious crime, 
Our greatest yet with least pretence, 
Great in council and great in war, 
Foremost captain of his time. 
Rich in saving common-sense. 
And, as the greatest only are. 
In his simplicity sublime. 
O good gray head which all men knew, 
O voice from which their omens all men 

drew, 
O iron nerve to true occasion true, 
O fall'n at length that lower of strength 
Which stood lour-square to all the winds that 

blew ! 
Such was he whom we deplore. 
The long self-sacrifice ol life is o'er. 
The great World-victor's victor will be seen 

no more. 



All is over and done : 

Render thanks to tlie Giver. 

England, for thy son. 

Let the bell be toll'd. 

Render thanks to the Givei, 

And render him to the mould. 

Under the cross of gold 

That shines over city and river, 

There he shall rest forever 

Among the wise and the bold. 

Let the bell be toll'd : 

And a reverent people behold 

The towering car, the sable steeds : 

Bright let it be with his blazon'd Heeds, 

Dark in its funeral fold. 

Let the bell be tolled : 

And a deeper knell in the heart be knoli'd ; 

And the sound of the sorrowing anthem 

roli'd 
Thro' the dome of the golden cross : 
And the volleying cannon thunder his loss ; 
He knew their voices of old. 
For many a time in many a clime 
His captain's-ear has heard them boom 
Bellowing victory, bellowing doimi ; 
When he with those deep voices wrought, 
Guarding realms and kings from shame ; 
With those deep voices our dead captai* 

taught 
The tyrant, and asserts his claim 
In that dread sound to the great name. 
Which he Ins worn so pure of blame, 
111 praise and in dispraise the same. 



i6o ODE ON THE DEA TH OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. 



A man of well-attemper'd frame. 
O civic muse, to such a name, 
To such a name for ages long, 
To such a name, 

Preserve a broad approach of fame, 
And ever-ringing avenues of song. 

6. 
Who is he that cometh, like an honor'd 

guest. 
With banner and with music, Viith soldier 

and with priest, 
With a nation weeping, and breaking on my 

rest? 
Mighty seaman, this is he 
W.ts great by land as thou by sea. 
Thine island loves thee well, thou famous 

man, 
The greatest sailor since our world began. 
Now, to the roll of muffled drums, 
To thee the greatest soldier comes ; 
For this is he 

Was great by land as thou by sea ; 
His foes were thine ; he kept us free ; 
O give him welcome, this is he, 
Worthy of our gorgeous rites. 
And worthy to be laid by thee ; 
For this is England's greatest son, 
He that gain'd a hundred fights, 
Nor ever lost an English gun ; 
This is he that far away 
Against the myriads of Assave 
Clash'd with his fiery few and won ; 
And underneath another sun. 
Warring on a later day. 
Round affrighted Lisbon drew 
The treble works, the vast designs 
Of his labor'd rampart-lines. 
Where he greatly stood at bay, 
Whence he issued forth anew, 
And ever great and greater grew, 
I'eating from the wasted vines 
liack to France her banded swarms, 
Hack to France with countless blows, 
Till o'er the hills her eagles flew 
Past the Pyrenean pines, 
Follow'd up in valley and glen 
With blare of bugle, clamor of men. 
Roll of cannon and clash of arms. 
And England pouring on her foes. 
Such a war had such a close. 
Again their ravening eagle rose 
In anger, wheel'd on Europe-shadowing 

wings, 
And barking for the thrones of kings ; 
Till one that sought but Duty's iron crown 
On that loud sabbath shook the spoiler 

down ; 
A day of onsets of despair ! 
Dash'd on every rocky square 
Their surging charges foam'd themselves 

away ; 
Last, the Prussian trumpet blew ; 
Thro' the long-tormented air 
Heaven flash'd a sudden jubilant ray. 
And down we swept and charged and over- 
threw. 
So great a soldier taught us there, 



What long-enduring hearts could do 

In that world's-earthquake, Waterloo ! 

Mighty seaman, tender and true. 

And pure as he from taint of craven guile, 

O savior of the silver-coasted isle, 

O shaker of the Baltic and the Nile, 

If aught of things that here befall 

Touch a spirit among things divine, 

If love of country move thee there at all, 

I5e glad, because his bones are laid by tliine! 

And thro' the centuries let a people's voice 

In full acclaim, 

A people's voice, 

'J'he proof and echo of all human fame, 

A people's voice, when they rejoice 

At civic revel and pomp and game. 

Attest their great connnander's claim 

With honor, honor, honor to him, 

Eternal honor to his name. 



A people's voice ! we are a people yet. 
Tho' all men else their nobler dreams forget 
Confused by brainless mobs and lawless 

Powers ; 
Thank Him who isled us here, and roughly 

set 
His Saxon in blown seas and storming 

showers. 
We have a voice, with which to pay the debt 
Of boundless love and reverence and regret 
To those great men who fought, and kept :t 

ours. 
And keep it ours, O God, from brute control ; 
O Statesmen, guard us, guard the eye, the 

soul 
Of Europe, keep our noble England whole. 
And save the one true seed of freedom 

sown 
Pietwixt a people and their ancient throne. 
That sober freedom out of which there 

springs 
Our loyal passion for our temperate kings ; 
For, saving that, ye help to save mankind 
Till public wrong be crumbled into dust. 
And drill the raw world for the march oi 

mind, 
Till crowds at length be sane and crowns be 

just. 
But wink no more in slothful overtrust. 
Remember him who led your hosts ; 
He bade you guard the sacred coasts. 
Your cannons moulder on the seaward wall ; 
His voice is silent in your council-hall 
Forever ; and whatever tempests lower 
Forever silent ; even if they broke 
In thunder, silent ; yet remember all 
He spoke among you, and the Man who 

spoke ; 
Who never sold the truth to serve the hour, 
Nor palter'd with Eternal God for power ; 
Who let the turbid streams of rumor flow 
Thro' either babbling world of high and low; 
Whose life was work, whose language rife 
With rugged maxims hewn from life ; 
Who never spoke against a foe ; 
Whose eighty winters freeze with one rebuke 
All great self-seekers trampling on the right; 



THE DAISY. 



i6i 



Truth-teller was our England's Alfred 

named ; 
Truth-lover was our English Duke ; 
Wliatever record leap to light 
He never shall be shamed. 



Lo, the leader in these glonous wars 

Now to glorious burial slowly borne, 

Follow'd by the brave of other lands, 

He, on whom from both her open hands 

Lavisli Honor shower'd all her stars, 

And affluent Fortune emptied all her horn. 

Yea, let all good things await 

Hijn who cares not to be great, 

But as he saves or serves the state. 

Not once or twice in our rough island-story, 

The path of duty was the way to glory : 

He that walks it, only thirsting 

For the right, and learns to deaden 

Love of self, before his journey closes. 

He shall find the stubborn thistle bursting 

Into glossy purples, which outredden 

All voluptuous garden-roses. 

Not once or twice in our fair island-story, 

The path of duty was the way to glory : 

He, that ever following her commands. 

On with toil of heart and knees and hand.s, 

Thro' the long gorge to the far light has won 

His path upward, and prevail'd, 

Shall find the toppling crags of Duty scaled 

Are close upon the shining table-lands 

To which our God Himself is moon and sun. 

Such was he : his work is done. 

But while the races of mankind endure, 

Let his great example stand 

Colossal, seen of every land. 

And keep the soldier firm, the statesman 

pure ; 
Till in all lands and thro' all human story 
The path of duty be the way to glory : 
And let the land whose hearths he saved fi-om 

shame 
For many and many an age proclaim 
At civic revel and pomp and game. 
And when the long-illumined cities flame. 
Their ever-loyal iron leader's fame. 
With honor, honor, honor, ho.ior to him, 
Eternal honor to his name. 



Peace, his triumph will be sung 

Bv some yet unmoulded tongue 

Far on in summers that we shall not see : 

Peace, it is a day of pain 

For one about whose patriarchal knee 

Late the little children clung: 

O peace, it is a day of pain 

For one, upon whose hand and heart and 

braui 
Once the weight and fate of Europe hung. 
Ours the pani, be his the gain ! 
More than is of man's degree 
Must be with us, watching here 
At this, our great solemnity. 
Whom we see not we revere. 
We revere, and we refrain 
From talk of battles loud and vain, 



And brawling memories all too free 
For such a wise humility 
As befits a solemn fane : 
We revere, and while we hear 
The tides of Music's golden sea 
Setting toward eternity. 
Uplifted high in heart and hope are we. 
Until we doubt not that for one so true 
There must be other nobler work to do 
Than when he fought at Waterloo, 
And Victor he must ever be. 
For tho' the Giant Ages heave the hill 
And break the shore, and evermore 
Make and break, and work their will ; 
Tho' world on world in myriad myriads roll 
Round us, each with different powers, 
And other forms of life than ours. 
What know we greater than the soul ? 
On God and Godlike men we build our trust. 
Hush, the Dead March wails in the people's 
ears : 

The dark crowd moves, and there are sobs 
and tears : 

The black earth yawns: the mortal disap- 
pears ; 

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust ; 

He is gone who seem'd so great. — 

Gone ; but nothing can bereave him 

Of tlie force he made his own 

Being here, and we believe him 

Something far advanced in state, 

And that he wears a truer crown 

Than any wreath that man can weave him. 

But speak no more of his renown, 

Lay your earthly fancies down. 

And in the vast cathedral leave him. 

God accept him, Christ receive him. 
1S52. 



THE DAISY. 

WRITTEN AT EDINnURGH. 

O Love, what hours were thine and mine. 
In lands of palm and southern pine ; 

In lands of palm, of orange-blossom. 
Of olive, aloe, and maize and vine. 

What Roman strength Turbia show'd 
In ruin, by till mountain road ; 

How like a gem. beneath, the city 
Of little Monaco, basking, glow'd. 

How richly down the rocky dell 
The torrent vineyard streaming fell 

To meet the sun and sunny waters, 
That only heaved with a summer swell. 

What slender campanlli grew 

By bays, the peacock's neck in hue ; 

Where, here and there, on sandy beaches 
A milky-bell'd amaryllis blew. 

How young Columbus .seem'd to rove, 
Yet present in his natal grove. 

Now watching high on mountain cornice, 
And steering, now, from a purple cove, 



l62 



TO THE REV. F. D. MAURICE. 



Now pacing mute by ocean's rim ; 
Till, ill a narrow street and dim, 

I stay'd the wheels at Cogoletto, 
And drank, and loyally drank to him. 

Nor knew we well what pleased us most, 
Not the dipt palm of which they boast; 

But distant color, happy hamlet, 
A moulder'd citadel on the coast, 

Or tower, or high hill-convent, seen 
A lij;ht amid its olives green ; 

Or olive-hoary cape in ocean ; 
Or rosy blossom in hot ravine, 

Where oleanders flush'd the bed 
Of silent torrents, gravel-spread ; 

And, crossing, oft we saw the glisten 
Of ice, far up on a mountain head. 

We loved that hall, tlio' white and cold, 
Those niched shapes of noble mould, 

A princely people's awful princes, 
The grave, severe Genovese of old. 

At Florence too what golden hours, 
In those long galleries, were ours ; 

What drives about the fresh Cascinfe, 
Or walks in Boboli's ducal bowers. 

In bright vignettes, and each complete, 
Of tower or duomo, sunny-sweet. 

Or palace, how the city glitter'd, 
Thro' cypress avenues, at our feet. 

But when we crost the Lombard plain 
Remember what a plague of rain ; 

Of rain at Reggio, rain at Parma ; 
At Lodi, rain, Piacenza, rain. 

And stern and sad fso rare the smiles 
Of sunlight! look'd the Lombard piles; 

Porch-pillars on the lion resting, 
And somDie, old, colonnaded aisles. 

Milan, O the chanting quires. 
The giant windows' blazon'd fires. 

The height, the space, the gloom, the glory ! 
A mount of marble, a hundred spires ! 

1 climb'd the roofs at break of day ; 
Sun-smitten Alps before me lay. 

I stood among the silent statues, 
And statued pinnacles, mule as they. 

How faintly-flush'd, how phnntom-fair, 
Was Monte Rosa, hanging there 

A thousand shadowy-pencill'd valleys 
And snowy dells in a golden air. 

Remember how we came at last 
To Como ; shower and storm and blast 
Had blown the lake bevond his limit, 
And all was flooded ; and how we past 

From Como, when the light vi'as gray. 
And in my head, for half the day, 

The rich Virgilian rustic measure 
Of Lari Maxume, all the way, 



Like ballad-burthen music, kept, 
As on the Lariano crej^t 

To that fair port below the castle 
Of Queen Tiieodolind, where \vc slept; 

Or hardly f-lept, but watch'd awake 
A cypress in the moonlight shake. 

The moonlight touching o'er a terrace 
One tall Agav^ above the lake. 

What more ? we took our last adieu, 
And up the snowy Sphigen drew. 

But ere we reach'd the highest summit 
I pluck'd a daisy, 1 gave it you. 

It told of England then to me, 
And now it tells of Italy. 

O love, we two shall go no longer 
To lands of summer across the sea ; 

So dear a life your arms enfold 
Whose crying is a cry for gold : 

Yet here to-night in this dark city, 
When ill and weary, alone and cold, 

I found, tho' crush'd to hard and dry, 
This nurseling of another sky 

Still in the little book you lent me. 
And where you tenderly laid it by : 

And I forgot the clouded Forth, 

The gloom that saddens Heaven and Eartlv 

The bitter east, ihe misty summer 
And gray metropolis of the North. 

Perchance, to lull the throbs of pain. 
Perchance, to charm a vacant brain, 

Perchance, to dream you still beside me, 
My fancy fled to the South again. 



TO THE REV. F. D. MAURICE. 

Come, when no graver cares employ, 
God-father, come and see your boy: 

Your presence will be sun in winter. 
Making the little one leap for joy. 

For, being of that honest few, 
Who give the Fiend himself his due. 

Should eighty thousand college councils 
Thunder " Anathema," friend, at you : 

Should all our churchmen foam in spite 
At you, so careful of the right, 

Yet one lay-hearth would give you wei 
come 
(Take it and come) to the Isle of Wight ; 

Where, far from noise and smoke of town 
I watch the twilight falling brown 

All round a careless-order'd garden 
Close to the ridge of a noble down. 

You '11 have no scandal while you dine. 
But honest talk and wholesome wine. 

And only hear the magpie gossip 
Garrulous under a rocf of pine : 



WILL.— THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. 



163 



For groves of pine on either hand, 
To break the blast of winter, stand ; 
And further on, the hoary Channel 
Tumbles a breaker on chalk and sand ; 

Where, if below the milky steep 
Some ship of battle slowly creep. 

And on thro' zones of light and shadow 
Glimmer away to the lonely deep, 

We might discuss the Northern sin 
Which made a selfish war begni ; 

Dispute the claims, arrange the chances ; 
Emperor, Ottoman, which shall win : 

Or whether war's avenging rod 
Shall lash all Europe into blood ; 

Till you should turn to dearer matters, 
Dear to the man that is dear to God ; 

How best to help the sfender store. 
How mend the dwellings, of the poor; 

How gain in life, as life advances. 
Valor and charity more and more. 

Come, Maurice, come : the lawn as yet 
Is hoar with rime, or spongy-wet ; 
But when the wreath of March has blos- 
som'd. 
Crocus, anemone, violet. 

Or later, pay one visit here, 

For those are few we hold as dear ; 

Nor pay but one, but come for many, 
Many antl many a happy year. 
January, 1854. 



WILL. 



O WELL for him whose will is strong ! 
He suffers, but he will not suffer long ; 
He suffers, but he cannot suffer wrong: 
For him nor moves the loud world's random 

mock, 
Nor all Calamity's hugest waves confound, 
Who seems a promontory of rock, 
That, compass'd round with turbulent sound, 
In middle ocean meets the surging shock, 
Tempest buffeted, citadel-crown'd. 



But ill for him who, bettermg not with time, 
Corrupts the strength of heaven-descended 

Will, 
And ever weaker grows thro' acted crime, 
Or seeming-genial venial fault. 
Recurring and suggesting still ! 
He seems as one whose footsteps 
Toiling in immeasurable sand, 
And o'er a weary, sultry land, 
Far beneath a blazing \auh. 
Sown in a wrinkle of the monstrous hill, 
The city sparkles like a grain of salt. 



THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT 
BRIGADE. 



Half a league, half a league, 
Half a league onward. 
All in the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 
" Forward, the Light Brigade ! 
" Charge for the guns ! " he said : 
Into the valley of Death 

Rodt the six hundred. 

2. 

" Forward, the Light Brigade 1 " 
Was there a man dismay'd.' 
Not tho' the soldier knew 

Some one had blunder'd : 
Theirs not to make reply, 
Theirs not to reason why. 
Theirs but to do and flic. 
Into the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 

3- 
Cannon to right of them. 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon in front of them 

Volley'd and thunder'd ; 
Storm'd at with shot and shell, 
Boldly they rode and well. 
Into the jaws of Death, 
Into the mouth of Hell 

Rode the six hundred. 



Flash'd all their sabres bare, 
Flash'd as they turn'd in air. 
Sabring the gunners there, 
Charging an army, while 

All the world wonder'd : 
Plunged in the battery-smoke. 
Right thro' the line they broke J 
Cossack and Russian 
Reel'd from the sabre-stroke 

Shatter'd and sunder'd. 
Then they rode back, but not 

Not the six hundred. 

■ 5- 
Cannon to right of them. 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon behind them 

Volley'd and thunder'd ; 
.Storm'd at with shot and shell, 
While horse and hero fell, 
They that had fought so well 
Came thro' the jaws of Death 
Back from the mouth of Hell, 
All that was left of them. 

Left of six hundred. 

6. 
When can their glory fade ? 
O the wild charge they made ! 

All the world wonder'd. 
Honor the charge they made ! 
Honor the Light Brigade, 

Noble six hundred I 



164 



ENID. 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



** Flos Regum Arthurus." 

JoaEHH OF Exeter. 



DEDICATION. 



These to His Memory — since he held them 

dear, 
Perchance as finding there unconsciously 
Some image of himself — I dedicate, 
I dedicate, I consecrate with tears — 
These Idyls. 

And indeed He seems to me 
Scarce other than my own ideal knight, 
" Who reverenced his conscience as his king ; 
Whose glory was, redressing human wrong ; 
Who spake no slander, no, nor listeii'd to it ; 
Who loved one only and who clave to her — " 
Her — over all whose realms to their last isle, 
Commingled with the gloom of imminent war, 
The shadow of His loss moved like eclipse. 
Darkening the world. We have lost him : he 

is gone : 
We know him now : all narrow jealousies 
Are silent : and we see him as he moved, 
How modest, kindly, all-accomplish'd, wise, 
With what sublime repression of himself, 
And in what limits, and how tenderly ; 
Not swaying to this faction or to that ; 
Not inaking his high place the lawless perch 
Of wing'd ambitions, nor a vantage-ground 
For pleasure : but thro' all this tract of years 
Wearing the white flower of a blameless life, 
liefore a thousand peering littlenesses. 
In that fierce light which beats upon a throne, 
And blackens every blot ; for where is he, 
Who dares foreshadow for an only son 
A lovelier life, a more unstain'd, than his ? 
Or how should England dreaminp; oi his sons 
Hope more for these than some uiheritance 
Of such a life, a heart, a luind as thine, 
Thon noble Fatlier of lier Kiugs to be. 
Laborious for her people and her iioor — 
Voice in the rich dawn of an ampler day — 
Far-sighted snmmoner of War and Waste 
To fruitful strifes and rivalries of peace — 
Sweet nature gilded by the gracious gleam 
Of letters, dear to Science, dear to Art, 
Dear to thy land and onrs, a Prince indeed, 
Beyond all titles, and a household name, 
Hereafter, thro' all times, Albert the Good. 

Break not, O woman's-heart, but still endure ; 
Break not, for thou art Royal, but endure, 
Remembering all the beauty of that star 
Which shone st ilose beside Thee, that ye 

made 
One light together, but has past and left 
The Crown of lonely splendor. 

May all love, 
Kis love, unseen but felt, o'ershadow Thee, 



The love of all Thy sons encompass Thee, 
The love of all thy daughters cherish Thee, 
The love of all Thy people comfort Thee, 
Till God's love set I'hee at his side again ! 



ENID. 



The brave Geraint, a knight of Arthur's 

court, 
A tributary prince of Devon, one 
Of that great order of the Table Round, 
Had wedded Enid, Yniol's only child. 
And loved her, as he loved the light of 

Heaven. 
And as the light of Heaven varies, now 
At sunrise, now at sun.set, now by night 
With moon and trembling stars, so loved 

Geraint 
To make her beauty vary day by day. 
In crimsons and in purples and in gems. 
And Enid, but to please her husband's eye. 
Who first had found and loved her in a 

stale 
Of broken fortunes, daily fronted him 
In some fresh splendor; and the Queen her- 
self. 
Grateful to Prince Geraint for service done, 
Loved lier, and often with her own white 

hands 
Array'd and deck'd her, as the loveliest, 
Next after her own self, in all the court. 
And Enid loved the Queen, and with true 

heart 
Adored her, as the stateliest and the best 
And loveliest of all women upon earth. 
And seeing them so tender and so close. 
Long in their common love rejoiced Geraint. 
But when a rumor rose about the Queen, 
Touching her guilty love for Lancelot, 
Though yet there lived no proof, nor yet was 

heard 
The world's loud whisper breaking into 

storm. 
Not less Geraint Jjelieved it ; and there fell 
A horror on him, lest his gentle wife. 
Thro' that great tenderness to Guinevere, 
Had suffered or should suffer any taint 
In nature : wherefore going to the king. 
He made this pretext, that his princedom lay 
Close on the borders of a territory. 
Wherein were bandit earls, and caitiff 

kniglits. 
Assassins, and all flyers from the hand 
Of Justice, and whatever loathes a law : 
And therefore, till the king himself should 
please 



ENID. 



i6s 



To cleanse tliis common sewer of all his 

realm, 
He craved a fair permission to depart, 
And there defend his marches ; and the 

king 
Mused for a little on his plea, but, last, 
Allowing it, the prince and Knid rode. 
And fifiy knights rode with them, to the 

shores 
Of Severn, and they past to their own land ; 
Where, thinking, that if ever yet was wife 
True to her lord, mine shall be so to me, 
He compassed her with sweet observances 
And worship, never leaving her, and grew 
Forgetful of his promise to the king. 
Forgetful of the falcon and the hunt, 
Forgetful of the ti;t and tournament, 
Forgetful of his glory and his name. 
Forgetful of his princedom and its cares. 
And this forgetfulness was hateful to her. 
And by and by the people, when tliey met 
In twos and threes, or fuller companies. 
Began to scoff and jeer and babble of him 
As of a prince whose manhood was all gone, 
And molten down in mere uxoriousness. 
And this she gather'd from the people's 

eyes : 
This too the women who attired her head. 
To please her, dwelling on his boundless 

love. 
Told Enid, and .they saddened her the 

more : *' 

I And day by day she thought to tell Geraint, 
! But could not out of bashful delicacy ; 
I Wiiile he that watch'd her sadden, was the 
' more 

Suspicious that her nature had a taint. 

j At last, it chanced on a summer morn 
I (They sleeping each bv other) the new sun 
I Beat through the biindless casement of the 
1 room, 

j And heated the strong warrior in his dreams; 
j Wlio, moving, cast the coverlet aside. 
; And bared the knotted.column of his throat, 
! The massive square of nis heroic bre.ast. 
And arms on which the standing muscle 

sloped. 
As slopes a wild brook o'er a little stone. 
Running too vehemently to break upon it. 
And Enid woke and sat beside the conch. 
Admiring him, and thought within herself, 
Was ever man so grandly made as he? 
Then, like a shadow, past the people's talk 
And accusation of uxoriousness 
Across her mind, and bowing over him. 
Low to her own heart piteously, she said : 

" O noble breast and all-puissant arms. 
Am I the cause, I the poor cause that men 
Reproach you, saying all your force is gone i 
I am the cause because I dare not sjieak 
And tell him what 1 think and what they 

say. 
And yet 1 hate that he should linger here ; 
1 cannot love my lord and not his name. 
Far liever had I gird his harness on him, 
^ud ride with him to battle and stand by, 



And watch his mightful hand striking great 

blows 
At caitiffs and at wrongers of the world. 
Far better were I laid in the dark earth, 
Not hearing any more his noble voice. 
Not to be folded more in these dear arms, 
And darken'd from the high light in his 

eyes. 
Than that my lord through me should suffer 

shame. 
Am I so bold, and could I so stand by, 
And see my dear lord wounded in the strife, 
Or may be pierced to death before min* 

eyes, 
And yet not dare to tell him what I think. 
And how men slur him, saying all his force 
Is melted into mere effeminacy ? 

me, I fear that I am no true wife." 
Half inwardly, half audibly she spoke. 

And the strong passion in her made her 

weep 
True tears upon his broad and naked breast, 
And these awoke hira, and by great mis- 
chance 
He heard but fragments of her later words. 
And that she fenr'd she was not a true wife. 
And tlien he thought, " In spite of all my 

care. 
For all my pains, poor man, for all my 

pains, 
.She is not faithful to me, and I see her 
Weeping for some gay knight in Arthur's 

hkll." 
Then tho' he loved and reverenced her too 

much 
To dream she could be of foul act, 
Right ihro' his manful breast darted the pang 
That makes a man in the sweet face of lier 
Whom he loves most, lonely and miserable. 
;Vt this he huri'd his huge lim.bs out of bed, 
.'\nd shook his drowsy squire awake and cried, 
" My charger and her palfrey," then to her, 
" 1 will ride forth into the wilderness; 
For tho' it seems my spurs are yet to win, 

1 have not fall'n so low as some would wish. 
And you, put on your worst and meanest 

dress 
And ride with me." And Enidask'd, amazed, 
" If Enid errs, let Enid learn her fault." 
But he, " I charge you, ask not. but obey." 
Then she bethought her of a faded silk, 
A faded mantle and a faded veil. 
And moving toward a cedarn cabinet. 
Wherein she kept them folded reverently 
Wilh sprigs of summer laid between the 

folds. 
She took them, and array'd herself therein, 
Remembering when first he came on her 
Drest in that dress, and how he loved her in it, 
And all her foolish fears about the dress. 
And all hi; journey to her, as himself 
Had told her, and their coming to the court 

For Arthiir on the Whitsuntide before 
Hi;kl court at old Caerleon upon Usk. 
There on a day, he sitting high in hall. 
Before him came a forester of Dean, 
Wet from the woods, with notice of a hart 



i66 



ENID. 



Taller than all his fellows, milky-white. 
First seen that day : these things he told the 

king. 
Then the good king gave order to let blow 
His horns for hunting on the morrow morn. 
And when the Queen petition'd for his leave 
S To see the hum, allow'd it easily. 

So with the morning all the court were gone. 

But Guinevere lay late into the morn, 

Lost in sweet dreams, and dreaming of her 

love 
For Lancelot, and forgetful of the hunt ; 
But rose at last, a single maiden witli her, 
Took hor.'^e, and forded Usk, and gain'd the 

wood ; 
There, on a little knoll beside it, stay'd 
Waiting to hear the hounds ; but heard in- 
stead 
A sudden sound of hoofs, for Prince Geraint, 
Late also, wearing neither hunting-dress 
Nor weapon, save a golden-hilted brand. 
Came quickly flashing thro' the shallow 

ford 
Behind them, and so gallop'd up the knoll. 
A purple scarf, at either end whereof 
There swung an apple of the purest gold, 
Sway'd round about hiin, as he gallop'd up 
To join them, glancing like a dragon-fly 
In summer suit and silks of holiday. 
Low bow'd the tributary Prince, and she. 
Sweetly and statelily. and with all grace 
Of womanhood and queenhood, answer'd 

liim : 
" Late, late. Sir Prince," she said, " later 

than we ! " 
"Yea, noble Queen," he answer'd, "and so 

late 
That 1 but come like you to see the hunt. 
Not join it." " Therefore wait v/ith me," she 

said ; 
" For on this little knoll, if anywhere. 
There is good chance that we shall hear the 

ho)mds ; 
Here often they break covert at our feet." 

And while they listen'd forthe distant hunt, 
Andjchiefly for the baying of Cavall, 
King Arthur's hound of deepest mouth, there 

rode 
Full slowly by a knight, lady, and dwarf; 
Whereof the dwarf lagg'd latest, and the 

knight 
Had visor up, and show'd a youthful face. 
Imperious, and of haughtiest lineaments. 
And Guinevere, not mindful of his face 
In the king's hall, desired his name, and sent 
Her maiden to demand it of the dwarf; 
Who being vicious, old, and irritable. 
And doubling all his master's vice of pride. 
Made answer sharply that she should not 

know. 
" Then will I ask it of himself," she ."^aid. 
" Nay, by my faith, thou shalt not," cried 

the dwarf ; 
" Thou art not worthy ev'n to speak of 

him " ; 
And when she put her horse toward the 

knight, 



Struck at her with his whip, and she retum'd 
Indignant to the Queen ; at which Geraint 
Exclaiming, " Surely I will learn the name," 
Made sharply to the dwarf, and ask'd it of 

him. 
Who answer'd as before; and when the Prince 
Had put his hor.se in motion toward the 

knight. 
Struck at him with his whip, and cut his 

cheek. 
The Prince's blood spirted upon the scarf, 
rjyeiiig it ; and his quick, instinctive hand 
Caught at the hilt, as to abolish him : 
But he, from his exceeding manfulness 
Ai*d pure nobility of temperament. 
Wroth to be wroth at such a worm, refrain'd 
From ev'n a word, and so returning, said : 

" I will avenge this insult, noble Queen, 
Done in your maiden's person to yourself: 
And I will track this vermin to their earths : 
For tho' 1 ride unarm'd, I do not doubt 
To find, at some place I shall come at, arms 
On loan, or else for pledge ; and, being found. 
Then will I fight him, and will break his 

pride. 
And on the third day will again be here. 
So that I be not fall'n in fight. Farewell." 

" Farewell, fair Prince," answer'd the 

stately Queen. 
" Be prosperous in this journey, as in all ; 
And may you light on all things that you love. 
And live to wed with her whom first you 

love : 
But ere you wed with any, bring your bride, 
And I, were she the daughter of a king. 
Yea, tho' she were a beggar from the hedge, 
Will clothe her for her bridals like the sun." 

And Prince Geraint, now thinking that he 
heard 
The noble hart at bay, now the far horn, 
A little vext at losing of the hunt, 
A little at the vile occasion, rode. 
By ups and downs, thro' many a grassy glade 
And valley, with fixt eye, following the three. 
At last they issued from the world of wood, 
And climb'd upon a fair and even ridge. 
And show'd themselves against the sky, and 

sank. 
And thither came Geraint, and underneath 
Beheld the long street of a little town 
In a long valley, on one side of which. 
White from the mason's hand, a fortress rose : 
And on one side a castle in decay. 
Beyond a bridge that fpann'd a dry ravine: 
And out of town and valley came a noise 
As of a broad brook o'er a shingly bed 
Brawling, or like a clamor of the rooks 
At distance, ere they settle for the night. 

And onward to the fortress rode the three. 
And enter'd, and were lost behind the walls. 
"So," thought Geraint, "I have track'd 

him to his earth." 
And down the long street, riding wearily. 
Found every hostel full, and everywhere 




" Beheld the long street of a little town 
111 a long valley." 



Was hammer laid to hoof, and the hot hiss 
And biistlingwhistle of the youth whoscour'd 
His master's armor ; and of such a one 
He ask'd, " What means the tumult in the 

town ?" 
Who told liim, scouring still, "The sparrow- 
hawk ! " 
Then riding close behind an ancient churl. 
Who, smitten by the dusty sloping beam, 
Went sweating underneath a sack of corn, 
Ask'd yet once more what meaui: the hubbub 

here ? 
Who answer'd grufflj', " Ugh ! the sparrow- 
hawk." 
Then, riding further past an armorer's, 
Who, with back turn'd, and bow'd above his 

work. 
Sat riveting a helmet on his knee, 
He put the selfsame query, but the man 
Not turning round, nor looking at him, said : 
" Friend, he that labors for the sparrow-hawk 
Has little time for idle questioners " 
Whereat Geraint flash'd into sudden spleen : 
" A thousand pips eat up your sparrow-hawk ! 
Tits, wrens, and all wing'd nothings peck 

him dead ! 
Ye think the rustic cackle of your bourg 
The murmur of the world ! What is it to me? 
O wretched set of sparrows, one and all. 
Who pipe of nothing but of sparrow-hawks ! 
Speak, if you be not like the rest, hawk- 
mad. 
Where can I get me harborage for the night? 
And arms, arms, arms to fight my enemy ? 

Speak ! " 
At this the armorer turning all amazed 
And seeing one so gay in purple silks. 
Came forward with the helmet yet in hand 
And answer'd, " Pardon me, O stranger 

knight : 
We hold a tourney here to-morrow mom. 
And there is scantly time for half the work. 
Arms? truth! I know not: all are wanted 

here. 
Harborage ? truth, good truth, I know not, 

save, 
It may be, at Earl Yniol's, o'er the bridge 
Yonder." He spoke and fell to work again. 

Then rode Geraint, a little spleenful yet. 
Across the bridge that spann'd the dry ravine. 
There musing sat the hoary-headed Earl, 
(His dress a suit of t'ray'd magnificence, 
Once fit for feasts of ceremony) and said : 
"Whither, fair son?" to whom Geraint re- 
plied, 
"O friend, I seek a harborage for the night." 
Then Yniol, " Enter therefore and partake 
The slender entertainment of a house 
Once rich, now poor, but ever open-door'd." 
"Thanks, venerable friend, replied Geraint; 
" So that you do not serve me sparrow-hawks 
For supper, I will enter, I will eat 
With all the passion of a twelve hours' fist.'' 
Then sigh'd and smiled the hoary-headed 

Earl. 
And answer'd, " Graver cause tiian yours is 
mine 



ID. 167 J 

To curse this hedgerow thief, the sparrow- j 

hawk : | 

Rut in, go in ; for, save yourself desire it, ' 

We will not touch upon him ev'n in jest." 1 

Then rode Geraint into the castle court, ji 
His charger trampHng many a prickly star 
Of sprouted thistle on the broken stones. 
He look'd and saw that all was ruinous. 
Here stood a shatter'd archway plumed with 

fern ; 
And here had fall'n a great part of a tower, 
Whole, like a crag that tumbles from the cliff, 
And like a crag was gay witn wildmg flowers: 
And high above a piece of turret stair. 
Worn by the feet that now were silent, 

woimd 
Bare to the sun, and monstrous ivy-stems 
Claspt the gray walls with hairy-fibred arms. 
And suck'd the joining of the stones, and 

look'd 
A knot, beneath, of snakes, aloft, a grove. 

And while he waited in the castle court. 
The voice of Enid, Yniol's daugliter, rang 
Clear thro' the open casement of the Hall, 
Singing : and as the sweet voice of a bird, 
Heard by the lander in a lonely isle, 
Moves him to think what kind of bird it is 
That sings .so delicately clear, and make 
Conjecture of the plumage and the form ; 
So the sweet voice of Enid moved Geraint ; 
And made him like a man abroad at morn 
When first the liquid note beloved of meu 
Comes flying over many a windy wave 
To Britain, and in April suddenly 
Breaks from a coppice gemm'd with green 

and red, 
And he suspends his converse with a friend. 
Or it may be the labor of his hands. 
To think or say, " there is the nightingale " ; 
So fared it with Geraint, who thought and 

said, 
" Here, by God's grace, is the one voice for 

me." 



It chanced the song that Enid sang was 
one 
Of Fortune and her wheel, and Enid sang : 

" Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel and low- 
er the proud ; 

Turn thy wild wheel thro' sunshine, storm, 
and cloud ; 

Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate. 

" Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel with smile 
or frown ; 
With that wild wheel we go not up or down ; 
Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great. 

" Smile and we smile, the lords of many 

lands : 
Frown and we smile, the lords of our own 

hands ; 
For man is man and master of his fate. 



i68 



ENID. 



" Turn, turn thy wheel above the staring 

crowd ; 
Thy wheel and thou are shadows in the 

cloud ; 
Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate." 

" Hark, by the bird's song you may learn 

the nest," 
Said Yniol ; " Enter quickly." Entering 

then, 
Right o'er a mount of newly-fallen stones. 
The diisty-rafter'd many-cobweb'd Hall, 
He tbund an ancient dame in dim brocade ; 
And near her, like a blossom vermeil-white. 
That lightly breaks a faded flower-sheath, 
Movedthe fair Enid, all in faded silk. 
Her daughter. In a moment thought Geraint, 
" Here Tjy God's rood is the one maid for 

me." 
But none spake word except the hoary Earl : 
" Enid, the good knight's horse stands in the 

court ; 
Take him to stall, and give him com, and 

then 
Go to the town and buy us flesh and wine : 
And we will make us merry as we may. 
Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great." 

He spake : the Prince, as Enid past him 
fain 
To follow, strode a stride, but Yniol caught 
His purple scarf, and held, and said " For- 
bear ! 
Rest ! the good house, tho' ruin'd, O my 

Son, 
Endures not that her guest should serve him- 
self" 
And reverencing the custom of the house 
Geraint, from utter courtesy, forbore. 

So Enid took his charrrer to the stall ; 
And after went her way across the bridge, 
And reach'd the town, and while the Prince 

and Earl 
Yet spoke together, came again with one, 
A youth, that following with a costrel bore 
The means of goodly welcome, flesh and 

wine 
And Enid brought sweet cakes to make them 

cheer. 
And in her veil enfolded, manchet bread. 
And then, because their hall must also serve 
For kitchen, boil'd the flesh, and spread the 

board, 
And stood behind, and waited on the three. 
And seeing her so sweet and serviceable, 
Geraint had longing in him evermore 
To stoop and kiss tlie tender little thumb, 
That crost the trencher as she laid it down : 
But after all had eaten, then Geraint, 
For now the wine made summer in his veins, 
Let his eye rove in following, or rest 
On Enid at her lowly hand maid-work, 
Now here, now there, about thi: dusky hall : 
Then suddenly addrest the hoary Earl. 

" Fair Host and Earl, I pray your courtesy : 



This sparrow-hawk, what is he, tell me of 

him. 
His name? but no, good faith, I will not 

have it : 
For if he be the knight whom late I saw 
Ride into that new foi tress by your town, 
White from the mason's hand, then have I 

sworn 
From his own lips to have it — I am Geraint 
Of Devon — for this morning when the 

Queen 
Sent her own maiden to demand the nam?, 
His dwarf, a vicious under-shapen thing, 
Struck at her with his whip, and she return'd 
Indignant to the Queen ; and then I swore 
That I would track this caitiff to his hold, 
And fight and break his pride, and have it of 

him. 
And all unarm'd I rode, and thought to find 
Arms in your town, where all the men are 

mad ; 
They take the rustic murmur of their bourg 
For the great wave that echoes round the 

worl d ; 
They would not hear me speak : but if you 

know 
Where I can light on arms, or if yourself 
Should have them, tell me, seeing I have 

sworn 
That I will break his pride and learn his name, 
Avenging this great insult done the Queen." 

Then cried Earl Yniol : "Art thou he in- 
deed, 
Geraint, a name far-sounded among men 
For noble deeds? and truly I, when first 
1 saw you moving by me on the bridge. 
Felt you were somewhat, yea and by your 

state 
And presence might have guess'd you one of 

those 
That eat in Arthur's hall at Camelot. 
Nor speak I new from foolish flattery ; 
For tliis dear child hath often lieard me praise 
Your feats of arms, and often when I paused 
Hath ask'd again, and ever loved to hear; 
So grateful is the noise of noble deeds 
To noble hearts who see but nets of wrong: 

never yet had woman such a pair 

Of suitors as this maiden ; first Limours, 
A creature wholly given to brawls and wine. 
Drunk even when he woo'd ; and be he j 
dead ') 

1 know not, but he passed to the wild land. \ 
The second was your foe, the sparrow-hawk. 
My curse, my nephew, — I will not let his 

name 
Slip from mv lips if T can help it,— he. 
When I that knew him fierce and turbulent 
Refused her to him, then his pride awoke ; 
And since tlie proud man ol'ten is the mean, 
He sowed a slander in the comnion ear. 
Affirming that his fiither left him gold. 
And in riiy charge, which was not render'd 

to him ; 
Bribed with large promises the men who 

served 
About iny person, the more easily 



ENID. 



169 



Becat":? my means were somewhat broken 

into 
Tliro' open doors and Iiospitallty ; 
U ;ised my own town against me in the nij;ht 
r.c.'ure my Enid's birthday, sack'd my house; 
] mm mine own earldom foully ousted me ; 
r.iilt that new fort to overawe my friends, 
i'c.r truly there are those who love me yet; 
And keeps me in this ruinous castle here. 
Where doubtless he would put me soon to 

death, 
r.iit th.it his pride too much despises me: 
A-iil r myself sometimes despise myself: 
I'l.r 1 have let men be, and have their way ; 
A k! much too gentle, have not used my power: 
Nor k!iow I whether 1 be very base 
( >r very manful, whether very wise 
(ir very foolish : only this I know, 
Tli.it whatsoever evil happen to me, 
1 seem to suffer nothing heart or limb. 
But can endure it all most patiently." 

" Well said, true heart," replied Geraint, 
" but arms : 
That if, as I suppose, your nephew fights 
In next day's tourney I may break his pride." 

And Yniol answer'd: "Arms,indeed,but old 
And rusty, old and rusty, Prince (jeraint. 
Are mine, and therefore at your asking, yours, 
But in this tournament can no man tilt. 
Except the lady he loves best be there. 
Two forks are fixt into the meadow ground. 
And over these is laid a silver wand, 
And over that is placed the sparrow-hawk, 
The prize of beauty for the fairest there. 
And this, what knight soever be in field 
Lays claim to for the lady at his side. 
And tilts with my good nephew thereupon, 
Who being apt at arms and big of bone 
Has ever won it for the lady with him, 
And toppling over all antagonism 
Has earn'd himself the name of sparrow- 
hawk. 
But you, that have no lady, cannot fight." 

To whom Geraint with eyes all bright re- 
plied. 
Leaning a little toward him, " Your leave ! 
Let me lay lance in rest, O noble ho :.t, 
For this dear child, because I never saw, 
Tho' having seen all beauties of our time, 
Nor can see elsewhere, anything so fair. 
And if I fall her name will yet remain 
Untarnish'd as before : but if I live, 
So aid me Heaven when at mine uttermost, 
As I will make her truly my true wife." 

Then, howsoever patient, Yniol's heart 
Danced in his bosom, seeing better days, 
And looking round he saw not Enid there, 
(Who hearing her own name had slint away) 
But that old dame, to whom fuil tenderly 
And finidling all her hand in bis he said, 
" Mother, a maiden is a tender thing. 
And best by her that bore her understood. 
Go thou to rest, but ere thou go to rest 
Tell her, and prove her heart toward the 
Prince." 



So spake the kindly-hearted Earl, and she 
With frequent smile and nod departing 

found. 
Half disarray'd as to her rest, the girl ; 
Whom first she kiss'd on either cheek, and 

then 
On either shining shoulder laid a hand, 
And kept her off and g.azed upon her face, 
And told her all their converse in the hall, 
Proving her heart ; but never light and shade 
Coursed one another more on open ground 
Beneath a troubled heaven, than red and 

pale 
Across the face of Enid hearing her : 
Whilst slowly falling as asca'.e that falls. 
When weight is added only grain by grain, 
Sank her sweet head upon her gentle breast ; 
Nor did she lift an eye nor speak a word. 
Rapt in the fear and in the wonder of it ; 
So moving without answer to her rest 
She found no rest, and ever fail'd to draw 
The quiet night into her blood, but lay 
Contemplating her own unwonhiness ; 
And when the jiale and bloodless east began 
To quicken to the sun, arose, and raised 
Her mother loo, and hand in hand they 

moved 
Down to the meadow where the jousts were 

held. 
And waited there for Yniol and Geraint. 

And thither came the twain, and when 

Geraint 
Beheld her first in field, awaiting him. 
He felt, were she the prize of bodily force, 
Himself beyond the rest pushing could move 
The chair of Idris. Yniol's rusted arms 
Were on his princely person, but thro' these 
Princelike his bearing shone ; and errant 

knights 
And ladies came, and by and by the town 
Flow'd in, and settling circled all the lists. 
And there they fi\t the forks into the ground, 
And over these they placed a silver wand, 
.^nd over that a golden sparrow-hawk. 
Then Yniol's nephew, after trumi>et blown, 
Spake to the lady with him and prnc'aim'd, 
" Advance and take as fairest of the fair. 
For I these two years past have won it for 

thee. 
The prize of beauty." Loudly spake the 

Prince, 
" Forbear : there is a worthier," and the 

knight 
With some surprise and thrice as much dis- 
dain 
Turn'd, and beheld the four, and all his face 
Glow'd like the heart of a great fire at Yule, 
So burnt he was with passion, crying out, 
" Do battle for it then," no more ; and thrice 
They clash'd together, and thrice they brake 

their spears. 
Then each, dishorsed and drawing, lash'd at 

each 
So often, and with such blows, that all the 

crowd 
Wonder'd, and now and then from distant 

walls 



I70 



ENID. 



There came a c!api>ing as of phantom hands. 
So twicethey fought, and twice they breathed, 

and still 
The dew of their great labor, and the blood 
Of their strong bodies, flowing, drain'd their 

force. 
But either's force was match'd till Yniol's cry, 
" Remember that great insult done the 

Queen," 
Increased Geraint's, who heaved his blade 

aloft, 
And crack'd the helmet thro', and bit the 

bone, 
And fell'd him, and set foot upon his breast, 
And said, "Thy name?" To whom the 

fallen man 
Made answer, groaning, " Edym, son of 

Nudd ! 
Ashamed am I that I should tell it thee. 
My pride is broken : men have seen my fall." 
"Then, Edyrn, sou of Nudd," replied Ge- 

raint, 
" These two things shalt thou do, or else 

thou diest. 
First, thou thyself, thy lady and thy dwarf, 
Shalt ride to Arthur's court, and being there, 
Crave pardon for that insult done the Queen, 
And shalt abide her judgjnent on it ; next, 
Thou shalt give back their earldom to thy kin. 
These two things shalt thou do, or thou shalt 

die." 
And Edyrn answer'd, " These things will I 

do. 
For I have never yet been overthrown. 
And thou hast overthrown me, and my pride 
Is broken down, for Enid sees my fall ! " 
And rising up, he rode to Arthur's court. 
And there ihe Queen forgave him ca,sily. 
And being young, he changed himself, and 

grew 
To hate the sin that seem'd so like his own, 
Of Modred, Arthur's nephew, and fell at last 
In the great battle fighting for the king. 

But when the third day from the hunting- 
morn 
Made a low splendor in the world, and wings 
Moved in her ivy, Enid, for she lay 
With her fair head in the dim-yeliow li.ght, 
Among the dancing shadows of the birds. 
Woke and bethought her of her promise given 
No later than last eve to Prince Geraint — 
So bent he seem'd on going the third day, 
He would not leave her, till her promise 

given — 
To ride with him this morning to the court. 
And there be made known to the stately 

Queen, 
And there be wedded with all ceremony. 
At this she cast her eyes upon her dress. 
And thought it never yet had look'd somean. 
For as a leaf in mid-November is 
'i'o what it was in mid-October, seem'd 
The dress that now she look'd on to the dress 
She look'd on ere the coming of Geraint. 
And still she look'd, and still the terror grew 
Of that strange bright and dreadful thing, a 
court. 



All staring at her in her faded silk : 

And softly to her own sweet heart she said: 

"This noble Prince who won our earldcm 

back. 
So splendid in his acts and his attire, 
Sweet heaven ! how much I shall discredit 

him ! 
Would he could tarry with us here awhile ! 
P>ut being so beholden to the Prince 
It were but little grace in any of us. 
Bent as he seem'd on going ihis ihird day, 
To seek a second favor at his hands. 
Yet if he could but tarry a day or two, 
Myself would work eye dim, and finger lame. 
Far liefer than so much discredit him." 

And Enid fell in longing for a dress 
All branch'd and flower'd with gold, a costly 

gift 
Of her good mother, given her on the night 
Before her birthd.iy, three sad years ago. 
That night of fire, when Edyrn sack'd their 

house. 
And scalter'd all they had to all the winds: 
For while the mother show'd it, and the 

two 
Were turning and admiring it, the work 
To both appear'd so costly, rose a cry 
That Edvrn's men were on them, and they 

^ed 
With little save the jewels they had on. 
Which being soid and sold had bought them 

bread : 
And Edvrn's men had caught them in their 

flight, 
And placed them in this ruin : and she wish'd 
The Prince had found her in her ancient 

home ; 
Then let her fa»cy flit across the past, 
And roam the goodly places that she knew ; 
And last bethought her how she used to 

watch, 
Near that old home, a pool of go'den carp ; 
And one was patch'd and blurr'd and lustre- 
less 
Among his burni.sh'd brethren of the pool ; 
And half asleep slie made comparison 
Of that and these to her own laded self 
And the gay court, and fell aslee]i again ; 
And dreamt herself was such a faded form 
Among her burnish'd sisters of the pool ; 
But tliis was in the garden of a king ; 
.And tho' she lay dark in the pool, she knew 
Ihat all was bright ; that all abo.it were birds 
Of sunny plume in gilded trellis-uork ; 
That all (he turf was rich in plots that look'd 
Eich like a garnet or a turkis in it ; 
And lords and ladies of the high court went 
In silver tissue talking things of state ; 
And children of the king in cloth of gold 
Glanced at the doors or ganibol'd down the 

walks ; 
And while she thought " they will not see 

nie," came 
A stately queen whose name was Guinevere, 
And all the children in their cloth of yold 
Ran to her, crying, '' If we have fish at all 



ENID. 



iji 



Let them be gold : and charge the gardeners 

now 
To pick the faded creature from the pool, 
And cast it on the mixen that it die." 
And therewithal one came and seized on her, 
And Knid started waking, with her heart 
All overshadow'd by the foolish dream, 
And lo 1 it was her mother grasping her 
To get her well awake ; and in her hand 
A suit of bright apparel, which she laid 
Flat on the couch, and spoke exultingly : 

" See here, my child, how fresh the colors 
lock. 
How fist they hold, like colors of a shell 
That keeps the wear and polish of the svave. 
Why not? it never yet wa^ worn, I trow ; 
Look on it, child, and tell me if you know 
it." 

And Enid look'd, but all confused at first, 
Could scarce divide it from her foolish dream. 
Then suddenly she knew it and rejoiced. 
And answer' d, " Yea, 1 know it ; your good 

gift. 
So sadly lost on that unhappy night ; 
Your own good gift ! " " Yea, surely," said 

the dame, 
" And gladly given again this happy morn. 
For when the jousts were ended yesterday. 
Went Yniol thro' the town, and everywhere 
He found the sack anc plunder of our house 
All scatter'd thro' the h:)Use3of the town : 
And gave command that all which once was 

ours. 
Should now be ours again : and yester-eve. 
While you were taikmg sweetly with your 

Prince, 
Came one with this and laid it in my hand. 
For love or fear, or seeking favor of us. 
Because we have our earldom back again. 
And yester-eve I would not tell you of it. 
But kept it for a sweet surprise at morn. 
Yea, truly is it not a sweet surprise ? 
For I myself unwillingly have worn 
My faded suit, as you, my child, have yours, 
And howsoever patient, Yniol his. 
Ah, dear, he took me from a goodly house. 
With store of rich apparel, sumptuous fare. 
And page, and maid, and squire, and senes- 
chal. 
And pastime, both of hawk and hound, and 

all 
That appertains to noble maintenance. 
Yea, and he brought me to a goodly house ; 
But since our fortune slipt from sun to shade, 
And all thro' that young traitor, cruel need 
Constrain'd us, but a better time has come ; 
So clothe yourself in this, that better fits 
Our mended fortunes and a Prince's bride : 
For tho' you won the prize of fairest fair. 
And tho' I heard him call you fairest fair. 
Let never maiden think, however fair. 
She is not fairer in new clothes than old. 
And should some great court-lady say, the 

Prince 
Hath pick'd a ragged-robin from the hedge, 
A..d like a madman brought her to the court, 



Then were you shamed, and worse, might 

shame the Prince 
To whom we are beholden : but I know. 
When my dear child is set forth at her best. 
That neither court nor country, tho' they 

sought 
Thro' all the provinces like those of old 
That lighted ou Queen Esther, has her 

match " 

Here ceased the kindly mother out of 

breath ; 
And Enid listen'd brigluening as she lay ; 
Then, as the white and glittering star of 

morn 
Parts from a bank of snow, and by and by 
Slips into golden cloud, the maiden ro.se. 
And left her maiden couch, and robed her- 
self, 
Help'd by the mother's careful hand and 

eye. 
Without a mirror, in the gorgeous gown : 
Who, after, turn'd her daughter round, and 

said. 
She never yet had seen her half so fair ; 
And call'd her like that maiden in the tale, 
Whom Gwydion made by glamour out of 

flowers. 
And sweeter than the bride of Cassivelaun, 
Flur, for whose love the Roman Caesar first 
Invaded Britain, "but we beat him back. 
As this great Prince invaded us, and we. 
Not beat him back, but welcomed him with 

joy. 
And I can scarcely ride with you to court. 
For old am I, and rough the ways and wild : 
But Yniol goes, and I full oft shall dream 
I see my prmcess as I see her now, 
Cloth'd with my gift, and gay among the 

gay." 

But whilst the women thus rejoiced, Ge- 

raint 
Woke where he slept in the high hall, and 

cail'd 
For Enid, and when Yniol made report 
Of that good mother making Enid gay 
In such apparel as might well beseem 
His princess, or indeed the stately queen. 
He answer'd, " Earl, entreat her by my love, 
Albeit I give no reason but iny wish. 
That she ride with me in her faded silk." 
Yniol with that hard message went : it fell. 
Like flaws in summer laying lusty corn : 
For Enid, all abash'd, she knew not why. 
Dared not to glance at her good mother's 

face, 
But silently, in all obedience. 
Her mother silent too, nor helping her, 
Laid from her limbs the costly-broider'd 

gift. 
And robed them in her ancient suit again, 
And so descended. Never man rejoiced 
More than Geraint to greet her thus attired: 
And glancing all at once as keenly at her. 
As careful robins eye the delver's toil, 
Made her cheek burn and either eyelid fall, 
But rested with h.;r sweet face satisfied ; 



ENID. 



Then seeing cloud upon the mother's brow, 
Ker by both hands he caught, and sweetly 
said : 

" O my new mother, be not wroth or 

grieved 
At your new son, for my petition to her. 
When late I left Caerleon, our great Queen, 
In words whose echo lasts, they were so 

sweet. 
Made promise that whatever bride I brought. 
Herself would clothe her like the sun in 

Heaven. 
Thereafter, when I reach'd this ruin'd hold, 
Beholding one so bright in dark estate, 
I vow'd that could 1 gain her, our kind 

Queen, 
No hand but hers, should make your Enid 

burst 
Sunlike from cloud — and likewise thought 

perhaps, 
That service done so graciously would bind 
The two together ; for I wish the two 
To love each other : how should Enid find 
A nobler friend? Another thought I had; 
I came among you here so suddenly, 
That tho' her gentle presence at the lists 
Might well have served for proof that I was 

loved, 
I doubted whether filial tenderness. 
Or easy nature, did not let itielf 
Be moulded by your wishes for her weal ; 
Or whether some false sense in her own self 
Of my contrasting brightness, overbore 
Her fancy dwelling in this dusky hall ; 
And such a sense might make her long for 

court 
And all its dangerous glories : and I thought. 
That could I someway prove such force in 

her 
Link'd with such love for me, that at a word 
(No reason given her) she could cast aside 
A splendor dear to women, new to her. 
And therefore dearer ; or if not so new. 
Yet therefore tenfold dearer by the power 
Of intermitted custom ; than I felt 
That I could rest, a rock in ebbs and flows, 
Fi.xt on her faith. Now, therefore, I do rest, 
A prophet certain of my prophecy. 
That never shadow of mistrust can cross 
Between u.s. Grant me pardon for my 

thoughts : 
And for my strange petition T will make 
Amends hereafter by some gaudy-day. 
When your fair child shall wear your costly 

gift 
Beside your own warm hearth, with, on her 

knees. 
Who knows? another gift of the high God. 
Which, maybe, shall have learn'd to lisp you 
thanks." 

He spoke : the mother smiled, but half in 

tears, 
Then brought a mantle down and wrapt her 

in it. 
And claspt and kiss'd her, and they rode 

away. 



Now thrice that morning Guinevere had 

climb'd 
The giant tower, from whose high crest, they 

say, 
Men saw the goodly hills of Somerset, 
And white sails tlying on the yellow t^ea ; 
But not to goodly hill or yellow .sea 
Look'd the fair Queen, but up the vale o\ 

Usk, 
By the flat meadow, till she saw them come: 
And then descending met them at the gates, 
Embraced her with all welcome as a friend, 
And did her honor as the Prince's bride, 
And clothed her for her bridals like the sun ; 
And all that week w.-.s old Caerleon gay. 
For by the hands of Dubric, the high saint, 
They twain were wedded with all ceremony. 

And this was on the last year's Whitsun- 
tide. 
But Enid ever kept the faded silk, 
Remembering how first he came on her, 
Drest in that dress, and how he loved her 

in it, 
And all the foolish fears about the dress. 
And all his journey toward her, as himself 
Had told her, and their coming to the court. 

And now this morning when he said to her, 
" Put on your worst and meanest dress," she 

found 
And took it, and array'd herself therein. 

O purblind race of miserable men, 
How many among us at this very hour 
Do forge a life-long trouble for ourselves, 
By taking true for false, or false for true ; 
Here, thro' the feeble twilight of this world 
Groping, how many, until we pass and reach 
That other, where we see as we are seen ! 

So fared it with Geraint, who issuing forth 
That morning, when they both had got to 

horse, 
Perhaps because he loved her passionately. 
And felt that tempest brooding round his 

heart, 
V/hich, if he spoke at all, would break per- 
force 
Upon a head so dear in thunder, said : 
" Not at my side ! I charge you ride before, 
Ever a good way on before ; and this 
I charge you, on your duty as a wife. 
Whatever happens, not to speak to me. 
No, not a word ! " and Enid was aghast ; 
And forth they rode, but scarce three paces 

on. 
When crying out, " Effeminate as T am, 
I will not fight my way with gilded arms, 
All shall be iron " ; he loosed a mighty purse, 
Hung at his belt, and hurl'd it toward the 

squire. 
So the last sight that Enid had of home 
Was all the marble threshold flashing, strown 
With gold and scatter'd coinage, and the 

squire 
Chafing his shoulder ; then he cried again, 
"To the wilds I " and Enid leading down 

the tracks 



ENID. 



173 



Thro' wliirh he bade her lead him on, they 

past 
The marches, and by bandit-haunted holds 
Gray swamps and pools, waste places of the 

hern, 
And wildernesses, perilous paths, they rode : 
Round was their pace at first, but slacken'd 

soon : 
A stranger meeting them had surely thought, 
They rode so slowly and they look'd so pale, 
That each had sulfer'd some exceeding wrong. 
For he was ever saying to himself, 
"O I that wasted time to tend upon her, 
To compass her with sweet observances. 
To dress her beautifully and keep her true " — 
And there he broke the sentence in his heart 
Abruptly, as a man upon his tongue 
May break it, when his passion masters him. 
And she was ever praying the sweet heavens 
To save her dear lord whole from any wound. 
And ever in her mind she cast about 
For that unnoticed failing in herself. 
Which made him look so cloudy and so cold ; 
Till the great plover's human whistle amazed 
Her heart, and glancing round the waste she 

fear'd 
In every wavering brake an ambuscade. 
Then thought again " If there be such in me, 
I might amend it by the grace of heaven. 
If he would only speak and tell me of it." 

But when the fourth part of the day was 

gone. 
Then Enid was aware of three tall knights 
On horseback, wholly arm'd, behind a rock 
In shadow, waiting for them, caitiffs all ; 
And heard one crying to his fellow, " Look, 
Here comes a laggard hanging down his head, 
Who seems no bolder than a beaten hound ; 
Come, we will slay him and will have his 

horse 
And armor, and his damsel shall be ours." 

Then Enid ponder'd in her heart, and said : 
" I will go back a little to my lord. 
And I will tell him all their caitiff talk; 
For, be he wroth even to slaying me, 
Far lievei by his dear hand had I die. 
Than that my lord should sutler loss or 
shame." 

Then she went back some paces of return, 
Met his full frown timidly firm, and said : 
" My lord, I saw three bandits by the rock 
Waiting to fall on you, and heard them boast 
That they would slay you, and possess your 

horse 
And armor, and your damsel should be theirs." 

He made a wrathful answer. " Did I wish 
Your warning or your silence ? one command 
I laid upon you, not to speak to me, 
And thus you keep it! Well then, look — 

for now. 
Whether you wish me victory or defeat. 
Long for my life, or hunger for my death, 
Yourself shall see my vigor is not lost." 



Then Enid waited pale and sorrowful, 
And down upon him bare the bandit three. 
And at the midmost charging. Prince (jeraint 
Drave the long spear a cubit thro' his breast 
And out beyond ; and then against his brace 
or comrades, each of whom had broken on 

him 
A lance that splinter'd like an icicle, 
Swung from his brand a windy buffet out 
Once, twice, to right, to left, and stunn'd tha 

twain 
Or slew them, and dismounting like a man 
That skins the wild beast after slaying him, 
Stript from the three dead wolves of woman 

born 
The three gay suits of armor which they wore. 
And let the bodies lie, but bound the suits 
Of armor on their horses, each on each, 
And tied the bridle-reins of all the three 
Together, and said to her, " Drive them on 
Belore you " ; and she drove them thro' the 

waste. 

He follow'd nearer: ruth began to work 
Against his anger in him, while he watch'd 
The being he loved best in all the world, 
With difficulty in mild obedience 
Driving them on : he fain had spoken to her, 
And loosed in words of sudden tire the wrath 
And smoulder'd wrong that burnt him all 

within ; 
But evermore it seem'd an easier thing 
At once without remorse to strike her dead. 
Than to cry "Halt," and to her own bright 

face 
Accuse her of the least immodesty: 
And thus tongue-tied, it made him wroth the 

more 
That she could speak whom his own ear had 

heard 
Call herself false : and suffering thus he made 
Minutes an age : but in scarce longer time 
'I'han at Caerleon the full-tided Usk, 
Before he turn to fall seaward again. 
Pauses, did Enid, keeping watch, behold 
In the first shallow shade of a deep wood, 
Before a gloom of stubborn-shafted oaks. 
Three other horsemen waitmg, wholly ariu'd. 
Whereof one seem'd far larger than her lord. 
And shook her pulses, crying, " Look, a 

prize ! 
Three horses and three goodly suits of arms. 
And all in charge of whom ? a girl : set on." 
"Nay," said the second, "yonder comes a 

knight." 
The third, "A craven! how he hangs his' 

head." 
The giant answer'd merrily, " Yea, but one? 
Wait here, and when he passes faU upon 

hnn." 

And Enid ponder'd in her heart and said, 
" I will abide the coming of my lord, 
And I will tell him all their villany. 
My lord is weary with the figlit before, 
And they will fall upon him unawares. 
I needs must disobey him for his good ; 
How should I dare obey him to his harm? 



174 El 

Needs must I speak, and tlio' he kill me 

for it, 
I save a life dearer to me than mine." 

And she abode his coming, and said to him 
With timid firmness, " Have 1 leave to 

speak ? " 
He said, " You take it, speaking," and she 
spoke. 

"There lurk three villains yonder in the 
wood, 
And each of them is wholly arm'd, and one 
Is larger-limb'd than you are, and they say 
That they will fall upon you while you pass." 

To which he flung a wrathful answer back : 
"And if there were an hundred in the v\ood, 
And every man were larger-limb'd tlian I, 
And all at once should sally out upon me, 
I swear it would not ruflle me so much 
As you that not obey me. Stand aside, 
And if I fall, cleave to the better man." 

And Enid stood aside to wait the event, 
Not dare to watch the combat, only breathe 
Short fits of prayer, at every stroke a breath. 
And he, she dreaded most, bare down upon 

him. 
Aim'd at the helm, his lance err'd; but Ge- 

raint's, 
A little in the late encounter strain'd. 
Struck thro' the bulky bandit's corselet home, 
And then brake short, and down his ericniy 

roil'd 
And there lay still : as he that tells the tale, 
Saw once a great piece of a promontory, 
That had a sapling growing on it, slii> 
From the long shore-ciiff 's windy walls to the 

beach. 
And there lie still, and yet the sapling grew: 
So lay the man transfixt. His craven pair 
Of comrades, making slowlier at the Prince, 
When now they saw their bulwark fallen, 

stood ; 
On whom the victor, to confound them more, 
Spurr'd with his terrible war-cry ; for as one. 
That listens near a torrent mountain-brook. 
All thro' the crash of the near cataract hears 
The drumming thunder of tlie hnger fall 
At distance, were the soldiers wont to hear 
His voice in battle, and be kindled by it, 
And foemen scared, like that false pair who 

turn'd 
Flying, but, overtaken, died the death 
Themselves had wrought on many an inno- 
cent. 

Thereon Geraint, dismounting, pick'd the 

lance 
That pleased him best, and drew from those 

dead wolves 
Their three gay suits of armor, each from 

each. 
And bound them on their horses, each on 

each. 
And tied the bridle-reins of all the three 



Together, and said to her, " Drive them on 
Liefore you," and she drove them thrtj' the 
wood. 

He follow'd nearer still; the pain she 

had 
To keep them in the wild ways of the wood. 
Two sets of three laden with jingling arms, 
Together, served a little to disedge 
I'he sharpness of that pain about her heart ; 
And they themselves, like creatures gently 

born 
But into bad hands fall'n, and now so long 
By bandits groom'd, prick'd their light ears, 

and felt 
Her low firm voice and tender government. 

So thro' the green gloom of the wood they 

pa.st, 
And issuing under open heavens beheld 
A little town with towers, upon a rock. 
And close beneath, a meadow gemlike chased 
1 n the brown wild, and mowers mow ing in it ; 
And down a rocky pathway from the place 
There came a fair-hair'd youth, that in his 

hand 
Rare victual for the mowers : and Geraint 
Had ruth again on Knid looking pale : 
I'hen, moving downward to the meadow 

ground, 
He, when the fair hair'd youth came by him, 

said, 
"Friend, let her eat ; the damsel is so faint." 
" Yea, willingly," replied the youth ; '"and 

you. 
My lord, eat also, t)io' the fare is coarse. 
And only meet for mowers " ; llien set down 
His basket, and dismounting on ihe sward 
They let the horses graze, and ale them- 
selves. 
And Enid took a little delicately. 
Less having stotnach for it than desire 
To close with her lord's pleasure ; bvt 

Geraint 
Ate all the mowers' victual unawares, 
And when he found all empty, was atnazi.d : 
And " Boy," said he, " I have eaten all, but 

take 
A horse and arms for guerdon ; choose the 

best." 
He, reddening in extremity of delight, 
" My lord, you overpay me fifty fold." 
"You will be all the wealthier," cried the 

Prince. 
" I take it as free gift, then," said tlie boy, 
" Not guerdon ; for myself can easily, 
While your good damsel rests, return, and 

fetch 
Fresh victual for these mowers of our Earl ; 
For these are his, and all the field is his, 
And I myself am his ; and I will tell him 
How great a man you are ; he loves to know 
When men of mark are in his territory: 
And he will have you to his palace here. 
And serve you costlier than with mowers' 

fare." 

Then said Geraint, " I wish no better fare! 
I never ate with angrier appetite 



ENID. 



I7S 



Than when I left your mowers diniierless. 
And into no Earl's palace will I go. 
I know, God knows, too" much of palaces ! 
And if ho want me, let him come to me. 
Hut hire us some fair chamber fur the night. 
And stalling for the horses, and return 
With victual for these men, and let us hnow." 

"Yea, my kind lord," said the glad youth, 

and went. 
Held his head high, and thought himself a 

knight. 
And up the rocky pathway disappear'd. 
Leading the horse, and they were left alone. 

But when the Prince had brought his errant 

eves 
Home from the rock, sideways he let them 

glance 
At Enid, where she droopt : his own false 

doom, 
That shadow of mistrust should never cross 
Betwixt ihem, came upon him, and he sigh'd ; 
Then with another humorous ruth remark'd 
The lusty mowers laboring dinnerless. 
And watch'd the sun blaze on the turning 

scythe, 
And after nodded sleepily in the heat. 
But she, remembering her old ruin'd hall, 
And all the windy clamor of the daws 
About her hollow turret, pluck'd the grass 
There growing longest by the meadow's edge, 
And into many a listless annulet, 
Now over, \yjs\\ beneath her marriage ring. 
Wove and unwove it, till the boy retuni'd 
And told them of a chamber, and they went : 
Where, after saying to her, " If you will. 
Call for the woman of the house," to which 
She answer'd, "Thanks, my lord" ; the two 

remain'd 
Apart by all the chamber's widtli, and mute 
A^ creatures voiceless thro' the fault of birth, 
( )r two wild men supporters of a shield, 
I'.iinted, who stare at open space, nor glance 
The one at other, parted by the shield. 

On a sudden, many a voice along the street. 
And hee! against the pavement echoing, burst 
Their drov.'se ; and either started while the 

door, 
Push'd from without, drave backv/ard to the 

wall. 
And midmost of a rout of roisterers. 
Femininely fair and dissolutely pale, 
Her suitor in old years before Geraiiit, 
Knter'd, the wild lord of the place, Limours. 
He moving up with pliant courtliness. 
Greeted Geraint full face, but stealthily. 
In the mid-warmth of welcome and graspt 

hand. 
Found Enid with the corner of his eye, 
And knew her sitting sad and solitary. 
Then cried Geraint for wine and goodly cheer 
To feed the sudden guest, and sumptuously 
According to his fashion, bade t!ie host 
Call in what men soever were his friends. 
And feast with these in honor of their earl ; 
" Au J care not for the cost ; the cost is mine." 



And wine and food were brought, and Earl 

LiLiionrs 
Drank till he jested with all ease, and told 
Free tales, and took the word and piay'd 

upon it. 
And made it of two colors ; for his talk, 
When wine and free companions kindled him, 
Was wont to glance and sparkle like a gem 
Of fifty facets ; thus he moved the Prince 
To laughter and his comrades to applause. 
Then, when the Prince was merry, ask'd 

Limours, 
"Your leave, my lord, to cross the room, 

and speak 
To your good damsel there who sits apart 
And seems so lonely?" " My free leave," 

he said ; 
" Get her to speak : she does not speak to 

me." 
Then rose Limours and looking at his feet, 
Like him who tries the bridge he fears may 

fail, 
Crost and came near, lifted adoring eyes, 
Bow'd at her side and utter'd whisperingly : 

" Enid, the pilot star of my lone life, 
Enid my early and my only love, 
Enid the loss of whom has turn'd me wild — 
What chance is this ? how is it I see you 

here? 
You are in my power at last, are in my power. 
Yet fear me not : I call mine own self wild, 
But keep a touch of sweet civility 
Here in the heart of waste and wilderness. 
I thought, but that your father came between, 
In former days you saw me favorably. 
And if it were so do not keep it b.rck : 
Make me a little happier : let me know it : 
Owe you me nothing for a life half lost? 
Yea, yea, the whole dear debt of all you are. 
And, Enid, you and he, I see it with joy — 
You sit apart, you do not speak to him. 
You come with no attendance, page or maid, 
To serve you — does he love you as of old ? 
For, call it lovers' quarrels, yet I know 
Tho' men may bicker with the things they 

love. 
They would not make them laughable in all 

eyes. 
Not while they loved them ; and you< 

wretched dress, 
A wretched insult on you, dumbly speaks 
Your story, that this man loves you no more. 
Your beauty is no beauty to him now : 
A common chance — right well I know it — 

pali'd — 
For I know men — nor will you win him back, 
For the man's love once gone never re- 
turns. 
But here is one who loves you as of old ; 
With more exceeding passion than of old: 
Good, speak the word : my followers ring 

him round ; 
He sits unarm'd ; I hold a finger up ; 
They understand : no ; I do not mean blood; 
Nor need you look so scared at what I say: 
My malice is no deeper than a moat. 
No stronger than a wall • there is the keep; 



176 



ENID. 



He shall not cross us more ; speak but the 

word : 
Or speak it not ; but then by Him that made 

me 
The one true lover which you ever had, 
I will make use of all llie power 1 have. 
O pardon me ! the madness ot that hour, 
When first 1 parted from you, moves me yet" 

At this the tender sound of liis own voice 
And sweet self-pity, or the fancv of it, 
Made his eye moist ; but Enid fear'd his 

eyes. 
Moist as they were, wine-heated from the 

feast ; 
And answer'd with such craft as women use, 
Guilty or guiltless, to stave off a chance 
Tliat breaks upon them perilously, and said : 

" Earl, if you love me as in former years, 
And do not practise on me, come with morn, 
And snatch me from him as by violence ; 
Leave me to-night : I am weary to tlie death." 

Low at leave-taking, with liis brandish'd 
plume 
Brushing his instep, bow'd the all-amorous 

Earl, 
And the stout Prince bade him a loud good- 
night. 
He moving homeward babbled to his men, 
How Enid never loved a man but him, 
Nor cared a broken egg-shell for her lord. 

But Enid left alone with Prince Geraint, 
Debating his command of silence given. 
And that she now perforce must violate it, 
Held commune with herself, and while she 

held 
He fell asleep, and Enid had no heart 
To wake him, but hung o'er him, wholly 

pleased 
To find him yet unwounded after fight. 
And hear him breathing low and equally. 
Anon she rose, and stepping lightly, heap'd 
The pieces of his armor in one place. 
All to be there against a sudden need ; 
Then dozed awhile herself, but overtoil'd 
By that day's grief and travel, evermore 
Seem'd catching at a rootless thorn, and then 
Went slipping down horrible precipices. 
And strongly striking out her limbs awoke ; 
Then thought she heard the wild Earl at the 

door. 
With all his rout of random followers, 
Sound on a dreadful trumi et, summoning her; 
Which was the red cock shouting to the light. 
As the gray dawn stole o'er the dewy world, 
And glimmer'd on his armor in the room. 
And once again she rose to look at it. 
But toiich'd it unawares : jangling, the casque 
Fell, and he started up and stared at her. 
Then breaking his command of silence given. 
She told him all that Earl Limours had said. 
Except the passage that he loved her not ; 
Nor left untold the craft herself had used ; 
But ended with apology so sweet. 
Low-spoken, and of so few words, and seem'd 
So justified by that necessity, 



That tho' he thought "was it for him she 

wept 
In Devon.'" he bufgave a wrathful groan, 
Saying " your sweet faces make good fellows 

fools 
And traitors. Call the host and bid him bring 
Charger and pallrey." So she glided out 
Among the heavy breathings of the house, 
And like a household Spirit at the walls 
Beat, till she woke the sleepers, and return 'd : 
Then tending her rough lord, tho' all inia.sk'd. 
In silence, did him service as a squire ; 
Till issuing arm'd he found the host and cried 
"Thy reckoning, friend?" and ere he leanit 

it, "Take 
Five horses and their armors " ; and the host, 
Suddenly honest, answer'd in amaze, 
" My lord, I scarce have spent the worth of 

one ! " 
" You will be all the wealthier," said the 

Prince, 
And then to Enid, " Forward ! and tc-day 
I charge you, Enid, more esj'eci.Tlly, 
What thing soever you may hear or see, 
Or fancy (tho' I count it of small use 
To charge you) that you speak not but obey," 

And Enid answer'd, " Yea, my lord, I 

know 
Your wish, ar.d would obey : but riding first, 
I hear the violent threats you do not hear, 
I see the danger which you car.not see , 
Then not to give you warning, that seems 

hard : 
Almost beyond me : yet I would obey." 

"Yea so," said he, "do it: be not too 

wise ; 
Seeing that you are wedded to a man. 
Not quite mismated with a yawning c'nwn. 
But one with arms to guard his head and 

yours. 
With eyes to find you out however far, 
And ears to hear you even in his dreams." 

With that he turned and looked as keenly at 

her 
As careful robins eye the delver's toil ; 
And that within her which a wantnn fool, 
Or hasty judger, would have called her guilt. 
Made her cheek burn and either eyelid fall. 
And Geraint look'd and was not satisfied. 

Then forward by a way whiclj, beaten 

broad, 
I,ed from the territory of false Limours 
To the waste earldom of another earl, 
Doorm, whom his shaking vassals call'd the 

Bull, 
Went Enid with her sullen follower on. 
Once she look'd back, and when she saw him 

ride 
More nearby many a rood than yestermom, 
It wellnigh made her cheerful : till Geraiiit 
Waving an angry hand as who should say 
" You watch me," saddened all her heart 

again. 
But while the sun yet beat a dewy blade, 



ENID. 



177 



The sound of many a heavily-galloping hoof 
Smote on her ear,'and turning round she saw 
Dust, and the point; of lances bicker in it. 
llicn not to disobey her lord's behest. 
And yet to give him warning, for he rode 
As if he heard not, moving back slie held 
Her finger up, and pointed to the dust. 
At which the warrior in his obstinacy. 
Because she kept the letter of his word 
Was in a manner pleased, and turning, stood. 
And in the moment after, wild Limours, 
Borne on a black horse, like a thunder-cloud 
Whose skirts are loosen'd by the breaking 

storm, 
Half ridden off with by the thing he rode, 
And all in passioji uttering a dry shriek, 
Dash'd on Geraint, who closed with him and 

bore 
Down by the length of lance and arm be- 
yond 
The crupper, and so left him stunn'd or dead, 
And overthrew the next that foUovv'd him, 
And blindly rush'd on all,the rout behind. 
But at the flash and motion of the man 
They vanish'd panic-stricken, like a shoal 
Of darting fish, that on a summer morn 
Adown the crystal dikes at Camelot 
Come slipping o'er their shadows on the sand, 
But if a man who stands upon tlie brink 
But lilt a shining hand against the sun. 
There is not left the twinkle of a fin 
Betwixt the cressy islets white in fiower ; 
So, scared but at the motion of the man. 
Fled all the boon companions of the Eirl, 
And left him lying in tlie public way : 
So vanish friendships only made in wine. 

Then like a stormy sunlight smiled Geraint, 
Who saw the chargers of the two that fell 
Start fnmi their fallen lords, and wildly fly, 
Mixt with the flyers. " Horse and man," he 

said, 
"All of one mind and all right-honest friends ! 
Not a hoof left ; and I methinks till now 
Was honest — paid with horses and wilh 

arms : 
I cannot steal or plunder, no nor beg : 
And so what say you, shall we strip him 

there 
Your lover ? has your palfrey heart enough 
To bear his armor? shall we last or dine ? 
No? — then do you, being right honest, pray 
That we may meet the horsemen of Earl 

Doorm, 
I too would still be honest." Thus he said ; 
And sadly gazing on her bridle-reins. 
And answering not one word, she led the 

way. 

But as a man to whom a dreadful loss 
Falls in a far land and he knows it not. 
But coming back he learns it, and the loss 
So pains him that he sickens nigh to death ; 
So fared it with Geraint, who being prick'd 
In combat with tlrj follower of I.inionrs, 
Bled underneath his armor secretly. 
And so rode on, nor told his gentle wife 
What ail'd hini, hardly knowing it himself, 



Till his eye darken'd and his helmet wagg'd ; 
And at a sudden swerving of the road, 
Tho' happily down on a bank of grass, 
I'he Prince, without a word, from his horse 

fell. 

And Enid heard the clashing of his fall. 
Suddenly came, and at his side all pale 
Dism.ounting, loosed the fastenings of his 

arms. 
Nor let her true hand falter, nor blue eye 
Moisten, till she had lighted nn his wound. 
And tearing off lier veil of faded silk 
Had bared her forehead to the blistering sun, 
And swathed the hurt that drain'd her dear 

lord's life 
Then after all was done that hand could do, 
She rested, and her desolation came 
Upon her, and she wept beside the way. 

And many past, but none regarded her. 
For in that realm ot lawless turbulence, 
A woman weeping for hermurder'd mate 
Was cared as much for as a summer shower: 
One took him for a victim of Earl Doorm, 
Nor dared to waste a perilous pity on him : 
Another hurrying past, a man-at-arms, 
Rode on a mission to the bandit Earl ; 
Hilf whistling and half singinga coarse song, 
He drove the dust against her veilless eyes : 
Another, flying from the wrath of Doorm 
Before an ever-fancied arrow, made 
Tile long way smoke beneath him in his 

fear ; 
At which her palfrey whinnying lifted heel. 
And scour'd into the coppices and was lost, 
While tlie great charger stood, grieved like a 

man. 

But at the point of noon the huge Earl 

Doorm, 
Broad-faced with under-frinee of russet beard. 
Bound on a foray, rolling eyes of prey, 
Came riding with a hundred lances up : 
But ere he came, like one that hails a ship. 
Cried out with a big voice, " What, is he 

dead ? " 
" No, no, not dead ! " she answer'd in all 

haste. 
" Would some of your kind people take him 

up. 
And bear him hence out of this cruel sun ; 
Most sure am I, quite sure, he is not dead." 

Then said Earl Doorm : " Well, if he be 

not dead. 
Why wail you for him thus ? you seem a child. 
And be he dead, 1 count you for a fool : 
Your wailing will not quicken him : dead or 

not. 
You mar a comely face with idiot tears. 
Yet, since the face is comely — some of yon. 
Here, take him up, and bear him to our 

hall ; 
And if he live, we will have him of our band ; 
And if he die, why earth has earth enough 
To hide him. See ye take the charter too, 
A noble one." 



178 



ENID. 



He spake, and past away, 
But left two brawny spearmen, who advanced, 
Each growling like a dog, when his good bone 
Seems to be pluck'd at by the village boys 
Who love to vex him eating, and he fears 
To lose his bone, and lays his foot upon it, 
Gnawing and growling ; so the ruffians 

growl 'd, 
Fearing to lose, and all for a dead man. 
Their chance of booty from the morning's 

raid ; 
Yet raised and laid him on a litter-bier. 
Such as they brought upon their forays out 
For those that might be wounded , laid him 

on it 
All in the hollow cf his shield, and took 
And bore him to the naked hail of Doorm, 
(His gentle charger following him unled) 
And cast him and the bier in which lie lay 
Down on an oaken settle in the hall. 
And then departed, hot in haste to join 
Their luckier mates, but growling as before. 
And cursing their lost time, and the dead man. 
And their own Earl, and their own souls, and 

her. 
They might as well have blest her : she was 

deaf 
■f o blessing or to cursing save from one. 

So for long hours sat Enid by her lord. 
There in the naked hall, propping his head. 
And chafing his pale hands, and calling to 

him. 
And at the last he waken'd from his swoon. 
And found his own dear bride propping his 

head. 
And chafing his faint hands, and calling to 

him ; 
And felt the warm tears falling on his face ; 
And said to his own heart, " She weeps for 

me " ; 
And yet lay still, and feign'd himself as dead. 
That he might prove her to the uttermost. 
And say to his own heart, " She weeps for 

me." 

But in the falling afternoon retum'd 
The huge Earl Doorm with plunder to the 

hall. 
His lusty spearmen follow'd him with noise : 
Each hurling down a heap of things that rang 
Against the pavement, cast his lance aside. 
And doff'd his helm : and then there flutter'd 

in. 
Half-bold, half-frighted, with dilated eyes, 
A tribe of women, dress'd in many hues. 
And mingled with the spearmen : and Earl 

Doorm 
Struck with a knife's haft hard against the 

board. 
And call'd for flesh and wine to feed his 

spears. 
And men brought in whole hogs and quarter 

beeves, 
And all the hall was dim with steam of flesh : 
And none spake word, but all sat down at 

once, 
And ate with tumult in the naked hall, 



Feeding like horses when you hear them 

feed ; 
Till Enid shrank far back into herself. 
To shun the wild ways of the lawless tribe. 
But when Earl Doorm had eaten all he would. 
He roll'd his eyes about the hall, and found 
A damsel drooping in a corner of it. 
Then he remember'd her, and how she wept; 
And out of her there came a power upon him : 
And rising on the sudden he said, " Eat 1 
I never yet beheld a thing so pale. 
God's curse, it makes me mad to see you 

weep. 
Eat ! Look yourself. Good luck had your 

good man. 
For were I dead who is it would weep for me? 
Sweet lady, never since I first drew breath, 
Have I beheld a lily like yourself. 
And so there lived some color in yourcheek, 
'I'here is not one among my gentlewomen 
Were fit to wear your slipper for a glove. 
But listen to me, and by me be ruled. 
And I will do the thing I have not done, 
For you shall share my earldom with me, 

girl, 
And we will live like two birds in one nest, 
And I will fetch you forage from all fields, 
For I compel all creatures to my will." 

He spoke : thehrawny spearman let his cheek 
Bulge with the unswallow'd piece, and turn- 
ing, stared ; 
While some, whose souls the old serpent long 

had drawn 
Down, as the worm draws in the wither'd leaf 
And makes it earth, hiss'd each at other's ear 
What shall not be recorded — women they. 
Women, or what had been those gracious 

things. 
But now desired the humbling of their best, 
Yea, would have helped him to it ; and all at 

once 
They hated her, who took no thought of them, 
F-ut answer'd in low voice, her meek head yet 
Drooping, " I pray you of your courte.sy. 
He being as he is, to let me be." 

She spake so low he hardly heard her speak. 
But like a mighty patron, satisfied 
With what himself had done so graciously. 
Assumed that she had thanked him, adding, 

" Yea, 
Eat and be glad, for I account you mine." 

She answer'd meekly, " How should I be 
glnd 
Henceforth in all the world at anything. 
Until my lord arise and look upon me? " 

Here the huge Earl cried out upon her talk. 
As all but empty heart and weariness 
And sickly nothing ; suddenly seized on her. 
And bare her by main violence to the board, 
And thrust the dish before her, crying, 
"Eat." 

" No, no," said Enid, vext, " I will not eat, 
Till yonder man upon the bier arise, 



-h 



ENID. 



And eat wilh me " " Drink, then," he an- 
swered. " Here ! " 
(And fill'd a horn wiih wine and held it to 

her,) 
" Lo ! I, myself, when flush'd witli fight, or 

hot, 
God's curse, with anger — often I myself, 
Before I well have drunken, scarce can eat : 
Drink therefore, and the wine will chani^e 
your will." 

" Not so," she cried, " by Heaven, I will 
not drink. 
Till my dear lord arise and bid me do it, 
And drink with me ; and if he rise no more, 
1 will not look at wine until I die." 

At this he turn'd all red and paced his hall. 
No V giiaw'd his under, now his upper lip. 
And coming up close to her, said at last : 
" Girl, for I see you scorn my courtesies, 
Take warning : yonder man is surelv dead ; 
And I compel all creatures to my will. 
Not eat nor drink? And wherefore wail for 

one, 
Who put your beauty to this flout and scorn 
By dressing it in rags? Amazed am 1, 
Beholding how you butt against my wish, 
That I forbear you thus : cross me no more. 
At least put off to please me this poor gown. 
This silken rag, this beggar-woman's weed : 
I love that beauty should go beautifully : 
For see you not my gentlewomen here. 
How gay, how suited to the house of one. 
Who loves that beauty should go beautiTully ! 
Rise therefore ; robe yourself in this : obey." 

He spoke, and one among his gentle- 
women 
Display'd a splendid silk of foreign loom. 
Where like a slioaling sea the lovely blue 
Play'd into green, and thicker down the 

front 
With jewels than the sward with drops of 

dew, 
When all night long a cloud clings to the hill. 
And with the dawn ascending lets the day 
Strike where it clung ; so thickly shone the 
gems. 

But Enid answer'd, harder to be moved 
Tlian hardest tyrants in their day of power, 
With life-long injuries buming unavenged, 
And now their hour has come ; and Enid 
said: 

" In this poor gown my dear lord found me 

first, 
And loved me serving in my father's hall : 
In tliis poor gown I rode with him to court. 
And there the Queen array'd me like the 

sun : 
In this poor gown he bade me clothe myself, 
When now we rode \\\>m\ this fatal quest 
Of honor, where no honor can be gaiu'd : 
And this poor gown I will not cast aside 
Until himself arise a living man, 
Ajd bid me cast it. I have griefs enough ; 



Pray you be gentle, pray you let me be : 
I never loved, can never love but him : 
Yea, God, I pray you of your gentleness. 
He being as he is, lo let m-; be." 

Then strode the brute Earl up and down his 

hall. 
And took his russet beard between his teeth ; 
Last, coming up quite close, and in his mood 
Crying, " I count it of no more avail. 
Dame, to be gentle than ungentle with you ; 
Take my salute," unkniglnly with flat hand, 
However lightly, smote her on the cheek. 
Then Enid, in her utter helplessness, 
And since she thought, " he had not dared te 

do it, 
Except he .surely knew my lord was dead," 
Sent forth a sudden sharp and bitter cry, 
As of a wild thing taken in the trap, 
Which sees the trapper coming thro' the 

wood. 

This heard Geraint, and grasping at his 
sword, 
(It lay beside him in the hollow shield,) 
iVIade but a single bound, and with a sweep 

of it 
Shore thro' the swarthy neck, and like a ball 
The russet-bearded head roU'd on the floor. 
So died Earl Doorm by him he counted dead. 
And all the men and women in the linll 
Rose when thev saw the dead man rise, and 

fled 
Yelling as from a spectre, and the two 
Were left alone together, and he said : 

" Enid T have used you worse than that 
dead man ; 
Done you more wrong : we both have under- 
gone 
That trouble which has left me thrice your 

own : 
Henceforward I will rather die than doubt 
And here I lay this penance on myself, 
Not, tho' mine own ears heard you yester- 

morn — 
You thought me sleeping, but I heard you 

say, 
I heard you say, that you were no true wife : 
I swear t will not ask your meaning in it : 
I do believe yourself against yourself. 
And will henceforward rather die than 
doubt." 

And Enid could not say one tender word, 
She felt so blunt and stupid at the heart : 
She only pray'd him, " Fly, they will return 
And slay you ; fly, your charger is without, 
My palfrey lost." "Then, Enid, shall you 

ride 
Behind me." "Yea," said Enid, "let us go." 
And moving out they found the stately horse. 
Who now no more a vassal to the thief, 
Uiit free to stretch his limbs in lawful figh.t, 
Neigh'd with all gladness as they came, and 

stoop'd 
With a low whinny toward the pair : and sho 
Kiss'd the white star upon his noble front. 



j8o 



ENID. 



Glad also ; then Geraint upon the horse 
Mounted, and reacli'd a hand, and on his 

foot 
She set her own and cliinb'd ; he turn'd his 

face 
And kiss'd her climbing, and she cast her 

arms 
About him, and at once they rode away. 

And never yet, since high in Paradise 
O'er the four rivers the first roses blew, 
L'ame purer pleasure unto mortal kind, 
Than lived thro' her who in that perilous 

hour 
Put hand to hand beneath her husband's 

heart. 
And felt him hers again : she did not weep, 
But o'er her meek eyes came a happy mist 
Like that which kept the heart of Eden green 
Before the useful trouble of the rain : 
Yet not so misty were her meek blue eyes 
As not to see before them on tlie path, 
Right in the gateway of the bandit hold, 
A knight of Arthur's court, who laid his lance 
In rest, and made as if to fall upon him. 
Then, fearing for h's hurt and loss of blood. 
She, with her mind all full of what had 

chanced, 
Shriek'd to the stranger, "Slay not a dead 

man ! " 
"The voice of Enid," said the knight: but 

she. 
Beholding it was Edyrn son of Nudd, 
Was moved so much the more, and shriek'd 

again, 
"O cousin, slay not him who gave you life." 
And Edyrn moving frankly forward spake : 
" My lord Geraint, I greet you with all love ; 
I took you for a bandit knight of Donrm ; 
And fear not, Enid, I should fall upon him. 
Who love you. Prince, with something of the 

love 
Wherewith we love the Heaven that chastens 

us. 
For once, when I was up so high in pride 
That I was halfway down the slope to Hell, 
By overthrowing me you threw nie higher. 
Now, madeakniglitof Arthur's Table Round, 
And since I knew this Earl, when 1 myself 
Was half a bandit in my lawless hour, 
I come the mouthpiece of our King to Doorm 
(The King is close behind me) bidding him 
Disband himself, and scatter all his powers. 
Submit, and hear the judgment of the King." 

" He hears the judgment of the King of 

Kings," 
Cried the wan Prince : " and lo the powers 

of Doorm 
Are scatter'd," and he pointed to the field 
Where, huddled here and there on mound 

and knoll. 
Were men and women staring and aghast. 
While some yet fled: and then he pJainlier 

told 
How the huge Earl lay slain within his hall. 
But when the knight besought him, " Follow 

me, 



Prince, to the camp, and in the King's own 

ear 
Speak what has chanced ; you surely have 

endured 
Strange chances here alone " ; that other 

flush'd, 
And hung his head, and halted in reply, 
F'earing the mild face of the blameless King, 
And after madness acted question ask'd : 
Till Edyrn crying, "If you will not go 
To Arthur, then will Arthur come to you," 
" Enough," he said, " I follow," aiid they 

went. 
But Enid in their going had two fears. 
One from the bandit scatter'd in the field. 
And one from Edyrn. Every now and then, 
When Edyrn rein'd his charger at her side. 
She shrank a little. In a hollow land, 
t rom which old fires have broken, men may 

fear 
Fresh fire and ruin. He, perceiving, said : 

" Fair and dear cousin, you that most had 

cause 
To fear me, fear no longer, I am changed. 
Yourself were first the blameless cause to 

make 
My nature's prideful sparkle in the blcod 
Break into furious tlame ; being repulsed 
By Yniol and yourself. I schemed and wrought 
Until i overturn'd him ; then set up 
(With one main purpose ever at my heart) 
My haughty jousts, and took a paramour; 
Did her mock-honor as the fairest fair, 
And, toppling over all antagonism. 
So wax'd in pride, that I believed myself 
Unconquerable, for I was wellnigh mad : 
And, but for my main purpose in these 

jousts, 
I should have slain your father, seized your- 
self. 
I lived in hope that some time you would 

come 
To these my lists with him whom best you 

loved ; 
And there, poor cousin, with your meek blue 

eyes, 
The truest eyes that ever answer'd heaven, 
I5ehold me overturn and trample on him. 
Then, had you cried, or knelt, or pray'd to 

me, 
I should not less have killed him. And you 

came, — 
But once you came, — and viith your own 

true eyes 
Beheld the man you loved (I speak as one 
Speaks of a service done him) overthrow 
My proud self, and my purpose three years 

old. 
And set his foot upon me, and give me life. 
There was I broken down ; there was t saved : 
Tho' thence I rode all-shamed, hating the 

li-e 
He gavp me, moaning tn be rid of it. 
And all the penance the (Jueen laid upon me 
Was but to rest awhile within her court ; 
Where first as sullen as a beast new-caged, 
Aud waiting to be treated like a wolf, 



ENID. 



i8i 



Because I knew my deeds were known, I 

found, 
Instead ot scornful pity or pure scorn, 
Such line reserve and noble reticence, 
Manners so kind, yet stately, such a grace 
Of tenderest courtesy, that I began 
To glance behind me at my former life. 
And find that it had been the wolfs indeed : 
And oft I talk'd with Dubric, the high saint, 
Who, with mild heat of holy oratory. 
Subdued me somewhat to that gentleness. 
Which, when it weds with manhood, makes 

a man. 
And you were often there about the Queen, 
But saw me not, or marked not if you saw ; 
Nor did I care or dare to speak with you. 
But kept myself aloof till I was changed ; 
And fear not, cousin ; I am changed indeed." 

He spoke, and Enid easily believed. 
Like simple noble natures, credulous 
Of what they long for, good in friend or foe. 
There most in those who most have done 

them ill. 
And when they reach'd the camp the kmg 

himself 
Advanced to greet them, and beholding her 
Tho' pale, yet hapjiy. ask'd her not a word. 
But went apart with Edyrn, whom he held 
In converse for a little, and return'd. 
And, .gravely smiling, lifted her from horse. 
And kiss'd her with all pureness, brother-like. 
And show'd an empty tent allotted her. 
And glancing for a minute, till he saw her 
Pass nito it, turn'd to the Prince, and said : 

"Prince, when of late you pray'd me for 
my leave 
To move to your own land, and there defend 
Your marches, I was prick'd with some re- 
proof. 
As one that let foul wrong stagnate and be. 
By having look'd too much thro' alien eyes. 
And wrought too long with delegated hands. 
Not used mine own : but now behold me 

come 
To cleanse this common sewer of all my 

realm. 
With Edyvn and with others : have you 

look'd 
At Edyrn? have you seen how nobly changed? 
This work of his is great and wonderful. 
His very face witli change of heart is changed. 
The world will not believe a man repents : 
And this wise world of ours is mainly right. 
Full seldom does a man repent, or use 
Both grace and will to pick the vicious quitch 
Of blood and custom wholly out of him. 
And make all clean, and plant himself afresh. 
Edyrn has done it, weeding all his heart 
As [ will weed this land before I go. 
I, therefore, made him of our Table Round, 
Not rashly, but have i^roved him every way 
One of our noblest, our nuist valorous, 
Saiiest and most obedient: and indeed 
This work of Edyrn wrought upon himself 
After a life of violence, seems to nie 
A thousaud-fold more great and wonderful 



Than if some knight of mine, risking his life. 
My subject with my subjects under him. 
Should make an onslaught single on a realm 
Of robbers, tho' he slew ihem one by one, 
And were himself nigh wounded to the 
death." 

So spake the King ; low bow'd llie Prince, 
and felt 
His work was neither great nor wonderful, 
Aud past to Enid's tent ; and thither came 
The King's own leech to look into his hurt ; 
And Enid tended on him there ; and there 
Her constant motion round him, and the 

breath 
Of her sweet tendance hovering over him, 
Fili'd all the genial courses of his biood 
With deeper and with ever deeper love. 
As the south-west tliat blowing Bala lake 
Fills ail the sacred Dee. So past the days. 

But while Geraint lay healing of his hurt. 
The blameless King went lorih and cast his 

eyes 
On whom his father Uther left in charge 
Long since, to guard the justice of the King : 
He look'd and lound them wanting; aud as 

now 
Men weed the white horse on the Berkshne 

hills 
To keep him bright and clean as heretofore. 
He rooted out the slothful officer 
Or guilty, which for bribe had wink'd at 

wrong. 
And in their chairs set up a stronger race 
With hearts and hands, aud sent a thousand 

men 
To till the wastes, and moving everywhere 
Clear'd the dark places and let in the law. 
And broke the bandit holds and cleansed the 

land. 

Then, when Geraint was whole again, they 

past 
With Arthur to Caerleon upon Usk. 
There the great Queen once more embraced 

her friend. 
And clothed her in apparel like the day. 
.'^nd tho' Geraint could never take again 
That comfort from their converse which he 

took 
Before the Queen's fair name was breatiied 

upon. 
He rested well content that all was well. 
Thence after tarrying for a s])ace they rode. 
And fifty knights rode with thein to the shorti 
Of Severn, and they past to their own land. 
And there he kept the justice of the King 
So vigorously yet mildly, that all heavts 
Applauded, and the spiteful whisjicr died : 
Aud being ever foremost in the cha^e, 
And victor at the tilt and tournament. 
They call'd him the great Prince and man oi 

men. 
But Enid, whom her ladies loved to call 
Enid the Fair, a grateful people named 
i'".nid the Good : and in their li.ills arose 
The cry of children, Enids aud Gcraiuli 



.82 



VIVIEN: 



or times to be ; nor did he doubt her more 
But rested in her fealty, till he crown'd 
A happy life with a fair death, and fell 
Against the heathen of the Nortliern Sea 
In battle, fighting for the blameless King. 



VIVIEN. 

A STORM was coming, but the winds were 
.still, 
And in the wild woods of Broceliande, 
Before an o.ik, so hollow huge and old 
It look'd a tower of ruin'd masonwork, 
At Merlin's feet the wily Vivien lay. 

The wily Vivien stole from Arthur's court: 
She hated all the knights, and heard in 

thought 
Their lavish comment when her name was 

named. 
For once, when Arthur walking all alone, 
Vext at a rumor rife about the Queen, 
Had met her, Vivien, being greeted fair. 
Would fain have wrought upon his cloudy 

mood 
With reverent eyes mock -loyal, shaken voice. 
And flutterd adoration, and at last 
With dark sweet hints of some who prized 

him more 
Than who should prize him most ; at which 

the King 
Had gazed upon her blankly and gone by : 
But one had watch'd, and had not held his 

peace : 
It made the laughter of an afternoon 
That Vivien should attempt the blameless 

King. 
And after that, she set herself to gain 
Him, the most famous man of all those times. 
Merlin, who knew the range of all their arts. 
Had built the King his havens, ships, and 

halls. 
Was also Bard, and knew the starry heavens ; 
The people called him Wizard ; whom at first 
She plav'd about with slight and sprightly 

talk. 
And vivid smiles, and faintly-venom'd points 
Of slander, glancing here and grazing there : 
And yielding to his kindlier moods, the Seer 
Would watch her at her petulance, and play, 
Ev'n when they seem'd unlovable, and laugh 
As those that watch a kitten ; thus he grew 
'I'olerant of what he half disdain'd, and she, 
Perceiving that she was but half disdain'd, 
Began to break her sports with eraver fits. 
Turn red or pale, would often when they met 
Sigh fully, or all-silent gaze upon him 
With such a fixt devotion, that the old man, 
'J'lio' doubtful, felt the tlattery, and at times 
Would (latter his own wish in age for love. 
And half believe her true: for thus at times 
He waver'd ; but that other clung to him, 
Fixt in her will, and so the seasons went. 
Then fell upon him a great melancholy ; 
And le.tving Arthur's court he gain'd the 

t«each ; 



There found a little boat, and stept into it ; 
And Vivien follow'd, but he niark'd her not. 
.She look the helm and he the sail ; the boat 
Drave with a sudden wind across the deeps, 
And touching Breton sands they disem- 

bark'd. 
And then she follow'd Merlin all the way, 
Ev'n to the wild woods of Broceliande. 
For Merlin once had told her of a charm, 
The which if any wrought on any one 
With woven paces and with waving arms, 
The man so wrought on ever seem'd to lie 
Closed in the four walls of a hollow tower, 
From which was no escape forevermore ; 
And none could find that man forevermore. 
Nor could he see but him who wrought the 

charm 
Coming and going, and he lay as dead 
And lost to life and use and name and fame. 
And Vivien ever sought to work the charm 
Upon the great Enchanter of the Time, 
As fancying that her glory would be great 
According to his greatness whom she 
quench'd. 
There lay she all her length and kiss'd his 
feet, 
As if in deepest reverence and in love. 
A twist of gold was round her hair ; a robe 
Of samite without price, that more exprest 
Than hid her, clung about her lissome limbs, 
In color like the satin-shining palm 
On sallows in the windy gleams of March : 
And while she kiss'd them, crying, " Tram- 
ple me. 
Dear feet, that I have follow'd thro' the 

world. 
And I w ill pay you worship ; tread me down 
And i will kiss you for it " ; he was mute: 
So dark a foreihouglu roll'd about his brain. 
As on a dull day in an Ocean cave 
The blind wave feeling round his long sea- 
hall 
In silence : wherefore, when she lifted up 
A face of sad appeal, and spake and said, 
" O Merlin, do you love me ? " and again, 
"O Merlin, do you love me?" and once 

more, 
"Great Master, do you love me?" he was 

mute. 
And lissome Vivien, holding by his heel. 
Writhed toward him, slided up his knee and 

sat. 
Behind his ankle twined her hollow feet 
Together, curved an arm about his neck, 
Clung like a snake : and letting her left hand 
Droop from his mighty shoulder as a leaf. 
Made with her right a comb of pearl to part 
The lists of such a beard as youth gone out 
Had left in ashes : then he spoke and said. 
Not looking at her, "Who are wise in love 
Love iTiost, say least," and Vivien answer'd 

quick, 
" I saw the little elfgod eyeless once 
In Arthur's airas hall at Camelot : 
But neillier eyes nor tongue,— O stupid 

child! 
Yet you are wise viho .say it ; let me think 
Silence is wisdom : 1 am silent thea 



VIVIEN. 



183 



And Ask no kiss ' ; then adding all at once, 
•'And lo, I clotlie niy.-.elf vvitli wisdom," drew 
The vast and shaggy mantle of his beard 
Across her n;clc and bosom to her knee, 
And call'd herselt" a gilded summer fly 
Caught in a great old tyrant spider's web. 
Who meant to eat her up in that wild wood 
Without one word. So Vivien call'd her- 
self. 
But rather seem'd a lovely baleful star 
Veil'd in gray vapor ; till he sadly smiled : 
" To what request for what strange boon," he 

said, 
" Are these vour pretty tricks and fooleries, 

Vivien, the preamble? yet my thanks. 
For these have broken up my melancholy." 

And Vivien answer'd smiling saucily, 
" What, O my JVIaster, have you found your 
voice ' 

1 bid the stranger welcome. Thanks at last ! 
But yesterday you never open'd liii, 
Except indeed to drink : no cup had we : 

In mine own lady palms I cull'd the spring 
That gather'd trickling dropwise from the 

cleft, 
And made a pretty cup of both my hands 
And offer'd you it kneeling : then you drank 
And knew no more, nor gave me one poor 

word ; 
O no more thanks than might a goat have 

given 
With no more sign of reverence than a 

beard. 
And when we halted at that other well, 
And I was faint to swooning, and you lay 
Foot-gilt with all the blossom -dust of those 
Deep meadows we had traversed, did you 

know 
That Vivien bathed your feet before her 

own ? 
And yet no thanks : and all thro' this wild 

wood 
And all this morning when I fondled you : 
Boon, yes, there was a boon, one not so 

strange — 
How had I wrong'd you ? surely you are 

wise. 
But such a silence is more wise than kind." 

And Merlin lock'd his hand in hers and 
said : 



'O did you nev^lie upon the shore, 
A'atch r 
wave 



And watch the Jprl'd white of the coming 



Glass'd in the slippery sand before it breaks ? 
Ev'n such a wave, but not so pleasurable, 
Dark in the glass of some presageful nuiod. 
Had I for three days seen, ready to fall. 
And then I rose and fled from Arthur's court 
To break the mood. You follow'd me un- 

ask'd ; 
And when I look'd, and saw you following 

still. 
My mind involved yourself the nearest thing 
In that mind-mist : for shall 1 tell you truth? 
You seem'd chat wave about to break upon 



And sweep me from my hold upon the world, 
My use and name and fame. Your pardon, 

child. 
Your pretty sports have brighten'd all again. 
And ask your boon, for boon I owe you thrice, 
Once for wrong done you by confusion, next 
For thanks it seems till now neglected, last 
For these your dainty gambols : wherefore 

ask : 
And take this boon so strange and not so 

strange." 

And Vivien answer'd, smiling moumfiilly : 
" O not so strange as my long asking it, 
Nor yet so strange as you yourself are strange. 
Nor half so strange as that dark mood of 

yours. 
I ever fear'd you were not wholly mine ; 
And see, yourself have own'd you did me 

wrong. 
The people call you prophet : let it be : 
But not of those that can expound them- 
selves. 
Take Vivien for expounder; she will call 
That three-days-long presageful gloom of ; 

yours 
No presage, but the same mistrustful mood 
That makes you seem less noble than your- 
self. 
Whenever I have ask'd this very boon. 
Now ask'd again : for see you not, dear love, 
That such a mood as that, which lately 

gloom'd 
Your fancy when you saw me following you. 
Must make me fear still^nore you are not 

mine. 
Must make me yearn still more to prove you 

mine. 
And make me wish still more to learn this 

charm 
Of woven paces and of waving hands, 
.As proof of trust. O Merlin, teach it me. 
The charm so taught will charm us both to 

rest. 
For, grant me some slight power upon your 

fate, 
I, feeling that you felt me worthy trust. 
Should rest and let you rest, knowing you 

mine. 
And therefore be as great as you are named, 
Not muffled round with selfish reticence. 
How hard you look and how denyingly ! 
(), if you think this wickedness in me. 
That I should prove it on you unawares. 
To make you lose your use and name and 

fame, 
That makes me most indignant ; then our 

bond 
Had best be loosed forever : but think or not, 
By Heaven that hears I tell you the clean 

truth, 
As clean as blood of babes, as white as milk : 
O Merlin, may this earth, if ever I, 
If these unwitty wandering wits of mine, 
F.v'n in tlie jumbled rubbish of a dream. 
Have tript on such conjectura' treachery — 
May this hard earth cleave to the Nadir hell 
Down, down, and close again, and nip me flat, 



1 84 



VIVIEN: 



If I be such a traitress. Yield my boon. 
Till which I scarce can yield you all 1 am ; 
And grant my re-reiterated wish, 
The great proof of your love : because I think, 
However wise, you hardly know nie yet." 

And Merlin loosed his hand from her and 

said : 
" I never was less wise, however wise, 
Too curious Vivien, tlio' you talk of trust. 
Than when I told you first of sucli a charm. 
Yea, if you talk of trust I tell you this, 
Too much I trusted, when I told yoii that. 
And stirr'd this vice in you which ruin'd man 
Thro' woman the first hour ; for howsoe'er 
In children a great curiousness be well. 
Who have lo learn themselves and all the 

world, 
In you, that are no child, for still I find 
Your face is practised, when I spell the lines, 
I call it, — well, I will not call it vice : 
But since you name yourself the summer fly, 
I well could wish a cobweb for the gnat. 
That settlcj, beaten back, and beaten back 
Settles, till one could yield for weariness : 
l')Ut since I will not yield to give you power 
Upon my lite and use and name and fame. 
Why will you never ask some other boon? 
Yea, by God's rood, I trusted you too much." 

And Vivien, like the tenderest-hcarted 

maid 
That ever bided tryst at village stile. 
Made answer, either eyelid wet with tears. 
" Nay, master, ,be not wrathful with your 

maid ; 
Caress her : let her feel herself forgiven 
Who feels no heart to ask another boim. 
I think you hardly know the tender rhyme 
Of 'trust me not at all or all in all.' 
I heard the great Sir Lancelot sing it once, 
And it shall answer for me. Listen to it. 

' In Love, if Love be Love, if Love be ours. 
Faith and unfaith can ne'er be equal powers: 
Unfaith in aught is want of faith in all. 

' It is tlie little rift within the lute, 
That by and by will make the music mute. 
And ever widening slowly silence all. 

' The little rift within the lover's lute. 
Or little pitted speck in garner'd fruit, 
That rotting inward slowly moulders all. 

' It is not worth the keeping : let it go : 
But shall it? answer, darling, answer, no. 
And trust me not at all or all in all.' 

O master, do you love my tender rhyme?" 

And Merlin look'd and half believed her 
true. 
So tender was her voice, so fair her face, 
So swee'.ly gleam'd her eyes behind her lears 
Like sunlight on the plain behind a shower: 
And yet he answer'd half indignantly : 



" Far other was the song that once I heard 
By this huge oak, sung nearly where we sit : 
For here we met, some ten or twelve of us. 
To chase a creature that was current then 
In these wild woods, the hart with golden 

horns. 
It was tlie time when first the question rose 
About the founding of a Table Round, 
That was to be, for love of God and men 
And noble deeds, the flower of all the world. 
And each incited eacli to noble deeds. 
And while we waited, one, the youngest of us. 
We could not keep him si'ent, out he flash'd, 
And into such a song, such fire for fame. 
Such trumpet-blowings in it, coming down 
To such a stern and iron-clashing close. 
That when he stopt we long'd to hurl to- 
gether. 
And should have done it ; but the beauteous 

beast 
Scared by the noise upstarted at our feet, 
And like a silver shadow sHpt away 
Thro' the dim land ; and all day long we rode 
Thro' the dim land against a rushing wind. 
That glorious roundel echoing in our ears. 
And chased the flashes of his golden horns 
Until they vanish'd by the fairy well 
That laughs at iron — as our warriors did — 
Where children cast their pins and nails, and 

cry, 
"Laugh little well," but touch it with a 

sword, 
I: buzzes wildly round the point ; and there 
We lost him : such a noble song was that. 
But, Vivien, when you sang me that sweet 

rhyme, 
I felt as tho' you knew this cursed charm, 
Were proving it on me, and that I lay 
And felt them slowly ebbing, name and 

fame." 

And Vivien answer'd, smiling mournfully ; 
"O mine have ebb'd away lorevermore. 
And all thro' following you to this wild wood. 
Because I saw you sad, to comfort you. 
Lo now, what hearts have men I they never 

mount 
As high as woman in her .selfless mood. 
And touching fame, howe'er you scorn my 

song 
Take one verse more — the lady speaks it — 

this : 

' My naine, once mine, ^w thine, is close- 

lier mine. 
For fame, coidd fame be mine, that fanir 

were thine, 
And shame, coidd shame be thine, that 

shame were mine. 
So trust ine not at all or all in all.' 

" Says she not well ? and there is more — 
iliis ihvme 
Is like the lair pe:nl necklace of the Queen, 
That burst in dancing, and the pearis were 

spi't : . 

Some It s', some --.tolen, some as relics kept. 
But ueveimore llie same two sister pearls 



VIVIEN. 



»8s 



R:in down the silken thread to kiss each 

other 
On her uliite neck — so is it with this rhyme ; 
It lives dispersedly in many hands, 
And every minstrel sings it dilferently ; 
Yet is there one trneline, the pearl of pearls ; 
'Man dreams of Fame while woman wakes 

to love.' 
True : Love, the' Love were of the grossest, 

carves 
A portion from the solid present, eats 
And uses, careless of the rest ; but Fame, 
The Fame that follows death is nothing to 

us ; 
And what is Fame in life but half-disfame. 
And counterchanged with darkness? you 

yourself 
Know well that Envv calls you Devil's son, 
And since you seem the JMaster ofall Art, 
They fain would make you iVIaster of all 

Vice." 

And Merlin lock'd his hand in hers and 
said, 
" I once was looking for a magic weed, 
And found a fair young squire who sat alone. 
Had carved himselfa knightly shieldofwood, 
And then was painting on it fancied arms, 
Azure, an Eagle rising, or, the Sun 
In dexter chief; the scroll ' I tbllow fame.' 
And speaking not, but leaning over him, 
I took his brush and blotted out the bird, 
And made a Gardener putting in a graff. 
With this for motto, ' Rather use than fame.' 
You should have seen him blush ; but after- 
wards 
He made a stalwart knight. O Vivien, 
Foryou.methinksyou think you love me well ; 
For me, I love you somewhat : rest : and 

Love 
Should have some rest and pleasure in him- 
self. 
Not ever be too curious for a boon. 
Too prurient for a proof against the grain 
Of him you say you love : but Fame with 

men. 
Being but ampler means to serve mankind. 
Should have small rest or pleasure in herself. 
But work as vassal to the larger love. 
That dwart's the petty love of one to one. 
Use gave me Fame at first, and Fame again 
Increasing gave me use. Lo, tliere my boon ! 
What other ? for men sought to prove me vile. 
Because I wish'd to give them greater minds ; 
And then did Envy call me Devil's son ; 
The sick weak beast seeking to help herself 
"By striking at her better, miss'd, and brought 
Her own claw back, and wounded her own 

heart. 
Sweet were the days when T was all unknown, 
But when my name was lifted up, the storm 
Broke on the mountain and I cared not for it. 
Right well know I that Fame is half-disfame, 
Yet needs must work my work. That other 

fame. 
To one at least, who hath not children, vague, 
Thu c.Tckle of the unborn about the grave, 
1 cared not for it : a single misty star. 



Which is the second in a line of stars 
That seem a .sword beneath a belt of three, 
1 never gazed upon it but I dreamt 
Of some vast charm concluded in that star 
To make fame nothing. Wherefore, if I fear. 
Giving you power upon me thro' this charm, 
'i'hat you might play me falsely, having power. 
However well you think you love me now 
(As sons of kings loving in pupillage 
Have turn'd to tyrants when they came to 

power) 
I rather dread the loss of use than fame ; 
If you — and not so much from wickedness, 
As some wild turn of anger, or a mood 
Of overstrain'd affection, it may be. 
To keep me all to your own sell, or else 
A sudden spurt of woman's jealousy. 
Should try this charm on whom you say you 

love." 

And Vivien answer'd, smiling as in wrath; 
" Have 1 not sworn ? 1 am not trusted. 

Good ! 
Well, hide it, hide it ; I shall find it out ; 
And being found take heed of Vivien. 
A woman and not trusted, doubtless I 
Might feel some sudden turn of anger bom 
Of your misfaiih ; and your fine epithet 
Is accurate too, for this full love of mine 
Without the full heart back may merit well 
Your term of overstrain'd. So used as 1, 
My daily wonder is, 1 love at all. 
And as to woman's jealousy, O why not? 

to what end, except a jealous one, 
And one to make me jealous if I love. 
Was this fair charm invented by yourself? 

1 well believe that all about this world 
You cage a bux'om cantive here and there, 
Closed in the four walls of a hollow tower 
From which is no escape forevermore." 

Then the great Master merrily answer'd 

her ; 
" Full many a love in loving youth was mine, 
I needed then no charm to keep them mine 
But youth and love ; and that full heart of 

yours 
Whereof you prattle, may now assure you j 

mine ; 
So live uncharm'd. For those who wrought 

it first. 
The wrist is parted from the hand that waved, 
The feet unmortised from their ankle-bones 
Who paced it, ages back : but will you hear 
The legend as in guerdon for your rhyme ? 

" There lived a king in the most Eastern 
East, 
Less old than T, yet older, for mv blood 
Hath earnest in it of far springs to be. 
A tawny pirate anchor'd in his port. 
Whose bark had plunder'd twenty nameless 

isles; 
And passing one, at the high peep of dawn. 
He saw two cities in a thousand boats 
All fi'.:hting for a woman on the sea. 
And pushing his black craft among them all. 
He lighlly scatter'd theirs and brought her off. 



i86 



VIVIEN. 



With loss of half his people arrow-slain ; 
A maid so smooth, so white, so vvoiulerfiil. 
They said a light came from her when she 

moved : 
And since the pirate would not yield her up. 
The King impaled liini for his piracy : 
Then made lier Queen : but those isle-nur- 

tur d eyes 
Waged such unwilling tho' successful war 
On all the youth, they sicUen'd ; councils 

thinn'd. 
And armies waned, for magnet-like she drew 
The rustiest iron of old fighters' hearts ; 
And beasts themselves would worship; cam- 
els knelt 
Unbidden, and the brutes of mountain back 
That carry kings in castles, bow'd black 

knees 
Of homage, ringing with their serpent bands, 
To make her smile, her golden ankle-bells. 
What wonder being jealous, that he sent 
His horns of proclamation out thro' all 
The hundred under-kingdoms that hesway'd 
To find a wizard who might teach the King 
Some charm, which being wrought upon the 

Queen 
Might keep her all his own : to such a one 
He promised more than ever king has given, 
A league of mountain full of golden mines, 
A province with a hundred miles of coast, 
A palace and a princess, all for him : 
But on all those who tried and fail'd, the 

King 
Pronounced a dismal sentence, meaning by it 
To keep the list low and pretenders back, 
Or like a king, not to be trifled with — 
Their heads should moulder on the city 

gates. 
And many tried and fail'd, because the charm 
Of nature in her overbore their own : 
And many a wizard brow bleach'd on the 

walls : 
And many weeks a troop of carrion crows 
Hung like a cloud above the gateway towers." 

And Vivien, breaking in upon him, said : 
"I sit and gather honey; yet, methinks. 
Your tongue has tript a little : ask yourself 
The lady never made vjiiuilling war 
With those fine eyes : she had her pleasure 

in it. 
And made her good man jealous with good 

cause. 
And lived there neither dame nor damsel 

then 
Wroth at a lover's loss? were all as tame, 
I mean, as noble, as their Queen was fair? 
Not one to flirt a venon) at her eyes. 
Or pinch a murderous dust into her drink, 
Or make her paler with a poison'd rose ? 
Well, those were not our days ; but did they 

find 
A wizard ? Tell me, was he like to thee ? " 

She ceased, and inade her lithe arm ro;uid 
his neck 
Tighten, and then drew back, and 1st her 
eyes 



Speak for her. glowing on him, like a bride's 
On her new lord, her own, the first of men. 

He answer'd laughing, " Nay, not like to 

me. 
At last they found — his foragers for charms — 
A little glassy-headed hairless man. 
Who lived alone in a great wild on grass ; 
Read but one book, and ever reading grew 
So grated down and filed auay with thought. 
So lean his eyes were monstrous; while the 

skin 
Clung but to crate and basket, ribs and spine. 
And since he kept his mind on one sole aim. 
Nor ever touch'd fierce w ivie, nor tasted flesh. 
Nor own'd a sensual w ish, to him the wall 
That sunders ghosts and shadow-casting men 
Became a crystal, and he saw them thro' it. 
And heard their voices talk behind the wall, 
And learnt their elemental secrets, j-.owers 
Ar.d forces ; often o'er the sim's bright eye 
Drew the vast eyelid of an inky cloud. 
And lash'd it at the base with slanting storm; 
Or in the noon of mist ai;d driving rain, 
When the lake whiten'd and the pine-wood 

roar'd. 
And the cairn'd mountain was a shadow, 

sunn'd 
The world to peace again : here was the man. 
And so by force ihey dragg'd him to the 

King. 
And then lie taught the King to charm the 

Queen 
In such wise, that no man could see her 

more. 
Nor saw she save the King, who wrought the 

charm. 
Coming and going, and she lay as dead. 
And lost all use of life : but when tlie King 
Made proffer of the league of golden mines. 
The provir.ce with a hundred miles of coast, 
The palace and the princess, that old man 
Went back to his old wild, and lived on grass, 
And vanish'd, and his book came down to 

me." 

And Vivien answer'd, smiling saucily : 
" You have the book : the charm is written 

in it : 
Good : take my counsel : let me know it af 

once : 
For keep it like a puzzle chest in chest. 
With each chest lock'd and padlock'd thirty- 
fold, 
And whelm all this beneath as vast a mound 
As after furious battle turfs the slain 
On some wild down above the windy deep, 
I yet should strike upon a sudden means 
To dig, pick, open, find and read the charm : 
Then, if I tried it, who should blame me 
then ? " 

And smiling as a Master smiles at one 
Th.it is not of his school, nor any school 
Hut that where blind and naked Ic-i uraiice 
Delivers brawling judgments, unashamed. 
On all things all day long, he answered he» ; 




" She ceased, and made her lithe arm round his neck 
Tighten, and then drew back, and let her eyes 
Speak for her." 



VIVIEN. 



187 



" You read the book, my pretty Vivien ! 
O ay, it is but twenty pages lung, 
But every page having an anii)le marge. 
And every marge enclosing in the midst 
A square of text that looks a Tittle blot. 
The text no larger than the limbs of tleas; 
And every square of text an awful charm. 
Writ in a'language that has long gone by. 
So long, that mountains have arisen since 
With cities on their flanks — yott read the 

book ! 
And every margin scribbled, crost and 

cramm'd 

With comment, densest condensation, hard 
To mind and eye; but the long sleepless 

nights 
Of my long life have made it easy to me. 
And none can read the text, not even I ; 
And none can read the comment but myself; 
And in the comment did I find the charm. 
O, the results are simple ; a mare child 
Might use it to the harm of any one, 
And never could undo it : ask no more : 
For tho' you should not prove it upon me, 
But keep that oath you swore, you raigiit, 

perchance, 
Assay it on some one of the Table Round, 
And all because you dream they babble of 

you." 

And Vivien, frowning in true anger, said : 
" What dare the full-fed liars say of me ? 
They ride abroad redressing human wrongs ! 
They sit with knife in meat and wine in horn. 
They bound to holy vows of chastity ! 
Were I not woman, I could tell a tale. 
But you are man, you well can understand 
The shame that cannot be explain'd for 

shame. 
Not one of all the drove should touch me : 

swine 1 " 

Then answer'd Merlin careless of her 
words, 
" You breathe but accusation vast and vague. 
Spleen-born, I think, and proofless. If you 

know. 
Set up the charge you know, to stand or fall !" 

And Vivien answer'd, frowning wrathfully : 
" O ay, what say ye to Sir Valence, him 
Whose kinsman left him watcher o'er his 

wife 
And two fair babes, and went to distant lands; 
Was one year gone, and on returning found 
Not two but three : there lay the reckling, 

one 
But one hour old ! What said the happy 

sire? 
A seven months' babe had been a truer gift. 
Those twelve sweet moons confused his fa- 
therhood ! " 

Then answer'd Merlin : " Nay, I know the 

tale. 
Sir Valence wadded with an outland dame : 
Some cause had kept him suuder'd trom his 

wife : 



One child they had : it lived with her: sha 

died : 
His kinsman travelling on his own affair 
Was cliarged by Valence to bring home the 

child. 
He brought, not found it therefore : take the 

truth." 

" O ay," said Vivien, " overtrue a tale. 
What say ye tiien to sweet Sir Sagramore, 
That ardent man ? ' to pluck the tlower in 

season ' ; 
So says the song, ' I trow it is no treason.' 

Master, shall we call him overquick 

To crop his own sweet rose before the hour ? " 

And Merlin answer'd : " Overquick are 

you 
To catch a lothly plume fall'n from the wing 
Of that foul bird ot rapine whose wiiole prey 
Is man's good name : he never wronged his 

bride. 

1 know the tale. An angry gust of wind 
PufF'd out his torch among the luyriad-room'd 
And many-corridor'd complexities 

Of Arthur's palace : then he found a door 
And darlcling te.t the sculptured ornament 
That vvreathen round it made it seem his 

own ; 
And wearied out made for the couch and 

slept, 
A stainless man beside a stainlesj maid ; 
And eitlier slept, nor knew of other there ; 
Till the high dawn piercing the royal rose 
In Arthur's casement gliminer'd chastely 

down, 
Blushing upon them blushing, and at once 
He rose without a word and parted from lier : 
But when the thing was blazed about the 

court. 
The brute world howling forced them into 

bonds. 
And as it chanced they are happy, being 

pure." 

" O ay," said Vivien, " that were likely 
too. 
What say ye then to fair Sir Percivale 
And of the horrid foulness that he wrouijht. 
The saintly youth, the spotless lamb of Christ, 
Or some black wether of St. Satan's foM. 
What, in the precincts of the chapel yard. 
Among the knightly brasses of the graves. 
And by the cold Hie Jacets of the dead ! " 

And Merlin answer'd, careless of her 
charge : 
" A sober man is Percivale and pure ; 
But once in life was fluster'd with new wine ; 
Then paced for coolness in the chapel-yard. 
Where one of Satan's shepherdesses caught 
And meant to stamp him with her master's 

mark ; 
And that he sinn'd, is not believable ; 
For, look upon his face ! — but if he sinn'd. 
The sin that practice burns into tlie blood. 
And not the one dark hour which brings re- 
morse. 



VIVIEN. 



Will brand us, after, of whose fold we be : 
Or else were he, the holy king, whose hymns 
Are chanted in the minster, worse than all. 
But is your spleen frolh'd out, or have ye 
more ? " 

And Vivien answer'd frowning yet in wrath: 
" O ay ; what say ye to Sir Lancelot, friend ? 
Traitor or true ? that commerce with the 

Queen, 
I ask you, is it clamor'd by the child. 
Or whisper'd in the corner? do you know it ? " 

To which he answer'd sadly : " Yea, I 

know it. 
Sir Lancelot went ambassador, at first. 
To fetch her, and she took him tor the King ; 
So fixt her fancy on him : let him be, 
liul have you no one word of loyal praise 
For Arthur, blameless King and stainless 

man ? " 

She answer'd with a low and chuckling 

laugh : 
" Him ? is he a man at all, who knows and 

winks? 
Sees what his fair bride is and does, and 

winks? 
By which the good king means to blind him- 
self. 
And blinds himself and all the Table Round 
To all the foulness that they work. Myself 
Could call him (were it not for womanhood) 
The pretty, popular name such manhood 

earns. 
Could call him the main cause of all their 

crime ; 
Yea, were he not crown'd king, coward, and 

fool." 

Then Merlin to his own hean, loathing, 

said : 
"O true and tender ! O my liege and king ! 
O selfless man and stainless gentleman. 
Who wouldst against thine own eye-witness 

fain 
Have all men true and leal, all women pure : 
How, in the mouths of base interpreters, 
From over-fineness not intelligible 
To things with every sense as false and foul 
As the poached filth that floods the middle 

street. 
Is thy white blamelessness accounted blame !" 

But Vivien deeming Merlin overborne 
By instance, recommenced, and let her 

tongue 
Rage like a fire among the noblest names, 
Polluting, and imputing her whole self. 
Defaming and defacing, till she left 
Not even Lancelot brave, nor Galahad clean. 

Her words had issue other than she will'd. 
He dragg'd his eyebrow bushes down, and 

made 
A snowy penthouse for his hollow eyes. 
And mutter'd in himself, "Tell her the 
charm 1 



So, if she had it, would she rail on me 
To snare the next, and if she have it not. 
So will she rail. What did the wanton say? 
' Not mount as high ' ; we scarce can sink as 

low : 
For men at most differ as Heaven and earth, 
But women, worst and best, as Heaven and 

Hell. 
I know the Table Round, my friends of old . 
All brave, and many generous, and some 

chaste. 
I think she cloaks Itit wounds of loss will 

lies ; 
I do believe she teniptpd them and fail'd, 
She is so bitter : for fine plots may fail, 
Tho' harlots paint their talk as well as face 
With colors of the heart that r.»'e not theirs 
1 will not let her know : nim- tithes of limes 
Face flatterers and backbiters are the same. 
And they, sweet soul, that most impute i 

a crime 
Are pronest to it, and impute themselves, 
Wanting the mental rage ; or low desire 
Not to feel lowest makes them level all : 
Yea, they would pare the mountain lo the 

plain. 
To leave an equal baseness ; and in this 
Are harlots like the crowd, that if they Ind 
Some stain or blemish in a name of note. 
Not grieving that their greatest are so small, 
Inflate themselves with some insane de 

light. 
And judge all nature from her feet of clay, 
Without the will to lift their eyes, and see 
Her godlike head crown'd with spiritual fire, 
And touching ollter worlds. I am weary of 

her." 

He spoke in words part heard, in whispers 
part. 
Half suffocated in the hoary fell 
And many-winter'd fleece of throat and chin. 
But Vivien, gathering somew hat of his mood. 
And hearing "harlot" mutter'd twice or 

thrice, 
Leapt from her session on his lap, and stood 
Stiff as a viper frozen : loathsome sight. 
How from the rosy lips of life and love, 
Flash'd the bare-grinning skeleton of death 1 
White was her cheek ; sharp breaths of an- 
ger puff 'd 
Her fairy nostril out ; her hand half-cle.nch'd 
Went faltering sideways downward to her 

belt. 
And feeling ; had she found a dagger there 
(For in a wink the false love turns to hate) 
She would have stabb'd him ; but she found 

it not : 
His eye was calm, and suddenly she took 
'lo bitter weeping like a beaten child, 
A long, long weeping, not consolable. 
Then her false voice made way broken with 
sobs. 

" O crueller than was ever told in tale, 
Or sung in song ! O vainlv lavish'd love ! 
O cruel, there was nothing wild or strani'e, 
Or seeming shamclul, for what shame in lov^ 



So love be true, and not as yours is— nothing 
Poor Vivien had not done to win his trust 
Who call'd herwhat he call'd her — all her 

crime, 
All — all — the wish to prove him wholly hers." 

She mused a little, and then dipt her 

hands 
Together with a wailing shriek, and said : 
" Siabb'd through the heart's affections to 

the heart ! 
Seeth'd like the kid in its own mother's 

milk ! 
Kill'd with a word worse than a life of blows ! 
I ihrnight thit he wm gentie, being great : 

God, that I had loved a smaller man ! 

1 should have foinid in him a greater heart. 
O, I, that flattering my true passion, saw 
The knic;hls, the court, the king, dark in 

your light. 
Who loved to make men darker than they are, 
Because of that high pleasure which I had 
To se.it you sole upon my pedestal 
Of worship — I am answer'd, and henceforth 
The course of life that seem'd so flowery to 

me 
With you for guide and master, only you, 
Becomes the se.i-ciiff pathway broken short. 
And ending in a ruin — nothing left. 
But into some low cave to crawl, and there, 
If the wolf spare me, weep my life away, 
Kill'd with inutterable unkiudliness." 

She paused, she tum'd away, she hung her 

head. 
The snake of gold slid from her hair, the 

braid 
Slipt and uncoil'd itself, she wept afresh, 
And the dark wood grew darker toward the 

storm 
In silence, while his ansrer slowly died 
Within him, till he let his wisdom go 
For ea.se of heart, and half believed her true : 
Call'd her to shelter in the hollow oak, 
" Come from the storm," and having no 

reply. 
Gazed at the heaving shoulder, and, the face 
Hand-hidden, as for utmost grief or shame ; 
Then thrice essay'd, by tenderest-touching 

terms 
To sleek her ruffled peace of mind, in vain. 
At last she let herself be conquer'd by him. 
And as the cageling newly flown returns. 
The seeming-injured simple-hearted thing 
Came to her old perch back, and settled 

there. 
There while she sat, half-falling from his 

knees, 
H.alf-nestled at his heart, and since he saw 
The slow tear creep from her closed eyelid 

yet. 
About her, more in kindness than in love. 
The gentle wizaid cast a shielding arm. 
But she dislink'd herself at once and rose, 
Her arms upon her breast across, and stood 
A virtuous gentlewoman deeply wrong'd. 
Upright and flush'd before him : then she 

said : 



" There must be now no passages of love 
Betwixt us twain henceforward evermore. 
-Since, if I be what 1 am grossly call'd. 
What should be granted which your own 

gross heart 
Would reckon worth the taking? I will go. 
In truth, but one thing now — better hava 

died 
Thrice than have ask'd it once — could make 

me stay — 
That proof of trust — so often asked in vain t 
How justly, atter that vile term of yours, 
I find with grief! I might believe you then, 
Who knows ? once more. O, what was once 

to me 
Mere matter of the fancy, now has grown 
The vast necessity of heart and life. 
Farewell : think kindly of me, for I fear 
My fate or fault, omitting gayer youth 
For one so old, must be to love you still. 
But ere 1 leave you let me swear once more 
That if I schemed against your peace in this, 
May yon just heaven, that darkens o'er me, 

send 
One flash, that, missing all things else, may 

make 
My scheming brain a cinder, if 1 lie." 

Scarce had she ceased, when out of heaven 

a bolt 
For now the storm was close above them) 

struck. 
Furrowing a giant oak, and javeliuing 
With darted spikes and splinters of the wood 
The dark earth round. He raised his eyes 

and saw 
The tree that shone white-listed thro' the 

gloom. 
But Vivien, fearing heaven had heard her 

oath. 
And dazzled by the livid-flickering fork. 
And deafen'd with the stammering cracks 

and claps 
That follow'd. flying back and crying out, 
"() Merlin, tho' you do not love me, save, 
Yet save me ! " clung to him and hugg'd 

him close : 
And call'd him dear protector in her fright, 
Nor yei forgot her practice in her fright. 
But wrought upon his mood and hugg'd him 

close. 
The pale blood of the wizard at her touch 
Took gayer colors, like an opal warm'd 
She blamed herself for telling hearsay tales : 
She shook from fear, and for her fault she 

wejit 
Of petulancy ; she call'd him lord and liege. 
Her seer, her bard, her silver star of eve. 
Her God, her Merlin, the one passionate 

love 
Of her whole life : and ever overhead 
Bellovv'd the tempest, and the rotten branch 
Snapt in the rushing of the river-rain 
Above them ; and in change of glare and 

gloom 
Her eyes and neck glittering went and came ; 
Ti!l now the storm, its burst of passion spent. 
Moaning and calling out of other lauds. 



190 



ELAINE. 



Had left the ravaged woodland yet once more 
To peace ; and what should not have been 

had been, 
For Merlin, overtalk'd and overworn. 
Had yielded, told her all the charm, and 

slept. 

Then, in one moment, she pnt forth the 
charm 
Of woven paces and of waving hands. 
And in the hollow oak he lay as dead, 
And lost to life and use and name and fame. 

Then crying " I have made his glory mine," 
And shrieking out " O fool I " the harlot 

leapt 
Adown the forest, and the thicket closed 
Behind her, and the forest echo'd " fool." 



ELAINE. 

Elain^k the fair, Elaine the lovable, 
Elaine, the lily maid of Astolat, 
High in her chamber up a tower to the east 
Guarded the sacred shield of Lancelot ; 
Which first she placed where morning's 

earliest ray 
Might strike it, and awake her with the 

gleam ; 
Then fearing rust or soilure, fashion'd for it 
A case of silk, and braided thereui',011 
All the devices blazon'd on the shield 
In their own tinct, and added, ot" her wit, 
A border fantasy of branch and flower. 
And yellow-throated nestling in the nest. 
Nor rested thus content, but day by day 
Leaving her household and good father 

climb'd 
That eastern tower, and entering barr'd her 

door, 
Stript off the case, and read the naked shield. 
Now guess'd a hidden meaning in his arms, 
Now made a pretty historv to herself 
Of every dint n sword had beaten in it. 
And everv scratch a lance had made upon it. 
Conjecturing when and where : this cut is 

fresh ; 
That ten years back ; this dealt him at Caer- 

lyle: 
That at Caerleon ; this at Camelot : 
And ah, God's mercy, what a stroke was 

there ! 
And here a thrust that might have kill'd, but 

God 
Broke the strong lance, and roll'd his enemy 

down. 
And saved him : so she lived in fantasy. 
How came the lily maid by that good 

shield 
Of Lancelot, she that knew not ev'n his 

name? 
He left it with her, when he rode to tilt 
For the great diamond in the diamond jousts. 
Which Arthur had ordaiu'd, and by that 

name 
Had named them, since a diamond was the 

Drize. 



For Arthur when none knew from whence 

he came. 
Long ere the people chose him for their 

king. 
Roving the trackless realms of Lyonnesse, 
Had found a glen, gray boulder and bbsk 

tarn. 
A horror lived about the tarn, and clave 
Like its own mists to all the mountain side: 
For here two brothers, one a king, had met 
And Ibnght together: but their names were 

lost. 
And each had slain his brother at a blow. 
And down they fell and made the glen 

abhorr'd : 
And there they lay till all t'neir bones w;rc 

bleached, 
And lichen 'd into color with the crags : 
And he that once was king had on a crown 
Of diamonds, one in frrmt, and four aside. 
And Arthur came, and laboring up the pass 
All in a misty moonshine, unawares 
Had trodden that crown'd skeleton, and the 

skull 
Brake from the nape, and from the skull the 

crown 
Roll'd into light, and turning on its rims 
Fled like a glittering rivulet tn tlie tarn : 
And down the shingly scaur he plunged, and 

caught. 
And set it on his head, and in his heart 
Heard murmurs, " Lo, thou likewise shall be 

king." 

Thereafter, when a king, he had the gems 
Piuck'd from tlie crown, and show'd them to 

his knights. 
Saying "These jewels, whereupon I chanced 
Divinely, are the kinrdom's, not the king's — 
For public use : her.cei'crward let there be, 
Once every year, a joust for one of these : 
For so by nine years' proof we needs must 

learn 
Which is our mightiest, and ourselves shall 

grow 
In use of arms and manhood, till we drive 
The Heathen, who, some say, shall rule the 

land 
Hereafter, which God hinder." Thus he 

S]''oke : 
And ei;. ht years past, eight jousts had been, 

and still 
Had Lance'ot won the diamond of the year, 
With purpose to present them to the Queen, 
When all were won : but meaninsjcal! at once 
'I'o snare her royal fancy with a boon 
Worth half her realm, had never spoken word. 

Now for the central diamond and the last 
And largest, Arthur, holding th.en his court 
Hard 011 the river nirh the place which now 
Is this world's hugest, let proclaim a joust 
At Camelot, and when the time drew nigh 
Spake (for she h.id been sick) lo Guinevere, 
" Are yon so sick, my Queen, you cannot 

move 
To these fair jousts?" "Yea, lord," she 
said, "you know it." 



"Then will you miss," he ansvver'd, "the 

great deeds 
Of Lancelot, and liis prowess in the Hsts, 
A sight you love to loo'.;, on." And the Queen 
Lifted her eyes, and they dwelt languidly 
On Lancelot, where he stood beside the 

King. 
He thinking that he read her meanuig there, 
"Stay with me, I am sick : my love is more 
Than many diamonds," yielded, and a heart, 
Love-loyal to the least wish of the Queen 
(However much lie yearn'd to make complete 
The tale of diamonds for his destined boon) 
Urged him to speak against the truth, and say 
" Sir King, mine ancient wound is hardly 

whole. 
And lets me from the saddle " ; and the King 
Glanced first at him, then her, and went his 

way. 
No sooner gone than suddenly she began : 

" To blame, my lord Sir Lancelot, much to 

blame. 
Why go you not to these fair jousts? the 

knights 
Are half of them our enemies, and the crowd 
Will murmur, lo the shameless ones, who 

take 
Their pastimenow the trustful king is gone ! " 
Then Lancelot, vext at having lied in vain : 
" Are you so wise ? you were not once so wise. 
My Qiieeii, that summer, when you loved me 

first. 
Then of the crowd you took no more account 
Than of the myriad cricket of the mead. 
When its own voice clings to each blade of 

grass. 
And every voice is nothing. As to kn.ghts, 
Them surely can 1 silence with all ease. 
But now my loyal worship is allow'd 
Of all men : many a bard, without offence, 
Has link'd our names together in his lay, 
Lancelot, the flower of bravery, Guinevere, 
The pearl of beauty : and our knights at feast 
Have pledged us in this union, while the P^ing 
Would listen smiling. How then? is there 

more ? 
Has Arthur spoken aught ? or would yourself. 
Now weary of my service and devoir. 
Henceforth be truer to your faultless lord?" 

She broke into a little scornful laugh. 
" Arthur, my lord, Arthur, the faultless King, 
That passionate perfection, my good lord — 
But who can gaze upon the Sun m heaven ? 
He never spake word of reproach to me, 
He never had a glimpse of mine untruth. 
He cares not for me : only here to-day 
There gleam'd a vague suspicion in his eyes : 
Some meddling rogue has tamper'd with 

him — else 
Rapt in this fancy of his Table Round, 
And swearing men to vows impossible, 
Toma';e them like himself: but, friend, tome 
He is all fault who hntli no fault at all : 
For who lo-^'es me must have a touch ofearth ; 
The lo vsun makes the color : 1 am viurs. 
Not Arthur's, as you know, save by the b Jud, 



And therefore hear my words : go to the 

jousis : 
The tiny-trumpeting gnat can break our 

dream 
When sweetest ; and the vermin voices here 
May buzz so loud — we scorn them, but they 

sting." 

Then ansvver'd Lancelot, the chief of 
knights, 
" And wiih what face, after my pretext 

made. 
Shall 1 appear, O Queen, at Camelot, I 
Before a king who honors his own word, 
As if it were his God's ? " 

" Yea," said the Queen, 
" A moral child w'ithout the craft to rule. 
Else had he not lost me : but listen to me, 
If 1 must find you wit : we hear it said 
That men go down before your spear at a 

touch 
But knowing you are Lancelot ; your great 

name. 
This conquers : hide it therefore ; go un- 
known : 
Win ! by this kiss you will : and our true 

king 
Will then allow your pretext, O my knight, 
.\s all for glory ; for to speak him true, 
Vou know right well, how meek so e'er he 

seem, 
No keener hunter after glory breathes. 
He loves it in his knights more than hin> 

self: 
They prove to him his work : win and re- 
turn." 

Then got Sir Lancelot suddenly to horse. 
Wroth at himself: not willing to be known, 
He left the barren-beaten thoroughfare. 
Chose the green path that show'd the rarer 

foot. 
And there among the solitary downs, 
F'ull often lost in fancy, lost his way ; 
Till as he traced a faintly-shadow'd track, 
I'hat all in loops and links among the 

dales 
Ran to the Castle of Astolat, he saw 
Fired from the west, far on a hill, the towers. 
Thither he made and wound the gateway 

horn. 
Then came an old, duinb, myriad-wrinkled 

man. 
Who let him into lodging and disarm'd. 
And Lancelot marvell'd at the wordless 

man : 
And issuing found the Lord of Astolat 
With two strong sons, Sir Torre and Sir 

Lavaine, 
Moving to meet him in the cistle court ; 
And close behind them stent the lily maid 
Elaine, his daughter : mother of the house 
There was not : some light jest among them 

rose 
With laughter dying down as the crear 

knight 
Approach'd them : then the Lord of Asto- 
lat, 



192 



ELAINE. 



" Whence comest thou, my guest, and by 
what name 

Livest between the lips ? for by thy state 

And presence 1 might guess thee chief of 
those, 

After the king, who eat in Arthur's halls. 

Him have 1 seen : the rest, his Table 
Round, 

Known as they are, to me they are un- 
known." 

Then answer'd Lancelot, the chief of 

knights, 
" Known am I, and of Arthur's hall, and 

known. 
What I by mere mischance have brought, my 

shield. 
But since I go to joust as one •■known 
At Camelot for the diamond, ask me not, 
Hereafter you shall know me — and the 

shield — 
I pray you lend me one, if such you have. 
Blank, or at least with some device not 

mine." 

Then said the Lord of Astolat, " Here is 

Torre's : 
Hurt in his first tilt was my son, Sir Torre. 
And, so, God wot, his shield is blank 

enough. 
His you can have." Then added plain Sir 

Torre, 
"Yea since I cannot use it, you may have 

it." 
Here laugh'd the father, saying, " Fie, Sir 

Churl, 
Is that an answer for a noble knight ? 
Allow him : but Lavaiiie my younger here, 
He is so full of lustihood, he will ride 
Joust for it, and win, and bring it in an 

hour 
And set it in this damsel's golden hair. 
To make her thrice as wilful as before." 

" Nay, father, nay, good father, shame me 

not 
Before this noble knight," said young La- 

vaine, 
" For nothing. Surely I but play'd on 

Torre : 
He seem'd so sullen, vext he could not go : 
A jest, no more : for, knight, the maiden 

dreamt 
That some one put this diamond in her hand. 
And that it was too slippery to be held. 
And sllpt and fell into some pool or .stream, 
The castle-well, belike : and then I said 
That if I went and if I fought and won it 
(But all was jest and joke among ourselves) 
Then must she keep it safelier. All was 

But father give me leave, an if he will. 
To ride to Camelot with this noble knight : 
Win shall I not, but do my best to win : 
Young as I am, yet would 1 do my best." 

" So you will grace me," answer'd Lance- 
lot. 



Smiling a moment, " with your fellowship 
O'er these waste downs whereon I lost my- 
self, 
Then were I glad of you as guide and friend ; 
And you shall win this diamond — as I 

hear. 
It is a fair large diamond, — if j-ou may, 
.\r\A. yield it to this maiden, if you will." 
" A fair large diamond," added plain Sir 

'I'orre, 
" Such be for Queens and not for simple 

maids." 
Then she, who held her eyes upon the 

ground, 
Elaine, and heard her name so tost about, 
Flush'd slightly at the slight disparagement 
Before the stranger knight, who, looking at 

her, 
Full courtly, yet not falsely, thus return'd : 
" if what is fair be but for what is fair. 
And only Queens are to be counted so, 
Rash were my judgment then, who deem 

this maid 
Might wear as fair a jewel as is on earth. 
Not violating the bond of like to like." 

He spoke and ceased : the lily maid 

Elaine, 
Won by the mellow voice before she look'd. 
Lifted her eyes and lead her lineaiiients. 
The great and guilty love he bare the Queen, 
In battle with the love he bare his lord, 
Had marr'd his face, and niark'd it ere his 

time. 
Another sinning on such heights with one, 
The flower of all the west and all the world, 
Had been the sleeker for it : but in him 
His mood was olten like a fiend, and rose. 
And drove him into wastes and solitudes 
For agony, who was yet a living soul. 
TSIarr'd as he was, he seem'd the goodliest 

man. 
That ever among ladies ate in Hall, 
And noblest, when she lilted up her eyes. 
However marr'd, of more than twice her 

years, 
Seain'd with an ancient swdrdcut on the 

cheek. 
And bruised and bronzed, she lifted up her 

eyes 
And loved him, with that love which was her 

doom. 

Then the great knight, the darling of the 
court, 
Loved of the loveliest, into that rude hall 
Stept with all grace, and not with half dis- 
dain 
Hid under grace, as in a smaller time. 
But kindly man moving among his kind : 
Whom they with meats and vmtage of their 

best 
And talk and minstrel melody entertain'd. 
And much they ask'd of court and Table 

Round, 
And ever well and readily answer'd he : 
But Lancelot, when they glanced at Guine- 
vere, 



Suddenly speaking of the wordless man, 

Heard from the Baron that, ten years be- 
fore. 

The heathen caught and reft him of his 
tongue. 

" He learnt and warn'd me of their fierce de- 
sign 

Against my house, and him they caught and 
maim'd : 

But I my sons and little daughter fled 

From bonds or death, and dwelt among the 
woods 

By the great river in a boatman's hut. 

Dull days were those, till our good Arthur 
broke 

The Pagan yet once more on Badou hill." 

"O there, good Lord, doubtless," Lavaine 

said, rapt 
By all the sweet and sudden passion of youth 
Toward greatness in its elder, " you have 

fought. 
O tell us : for we live apart, you know 
Of Arthur's glorious wars." And Lancelot 

spoke 
And answer'd him at full, as having been 
With Arthur in the fight which all day long 
Rang by the white mouth of the violent 

Glem ; 
And in the four wild battles by the sliore 
Of Duglas ; that on Bassa ; then the war 
That thunder'd in and out the gloomy skirts 
Of Celidon the forest ; and again 
By castle Gurnion where the glorious King 
Had on his cuirass worn our Lady's Head, 
Carved of one emerald, centred in a sun 
Of silver rays, that Iic;hten'd a^ he breathed ; 
And at Cacrleon had he helo'd his lord, 
When the strong neighings of the wild white 

Horse 
Set every gilded parapet shuddering ; 
And up in Agned Cathregonion too, 
And down the waste sand-shores of Tr.ith 

Treroit, 
Where many a heathen fell ; " and on the 

mount 
Of Badou I myself beheld the King 
Charge at the head of all his Table Round, 
And all his legions crying Christ and him. 
And brea'< them ; and I saw him, after, stand 
High on a heap of slain, from spur to plume 
Red as the rising sun with heathen blood, 
And seeing me, with a great voice he cried, 
' They are broken, they are broken ' for the 

King. 
However mild he seems at home, nor cares 
For triumph in our mimic wars, the jousts — 
For if his own knight cast him down, he 

laughs 
Saying, his kniglits are better men than he — 
Yet in this heathen warthe fire of Ond 
F'ills him ; I n"ver saw his like ; there lives 
No greater leader." 

*Vhi!e he utter'd this, 
Low to her own heart .said the lily maid, 
" Save vour great self, fair lord " ; and when 

he fell 
From talk of war to traits of pleasantry 



^NE. 193 

Being mirthful he but in a stately kind — 
She still look note that when the living smile 
Died from his lips, across him came a cloud 
Of melancholy severe, from which again. 
Whenever in her hovering to and fro 
The lily maid had striven to make him cheer, 
There brake a sudden-beaming tenderness 
Of manners and of nature : and she thought 
That all was nature, all, perchance, for her, 
And all night long his face before her lived, 
.4s when a painter, poring on a face. 
Divinely thro' all hindrance finds the man 
Behind it, and so paints him that his face, 
The shape and color of a mind and life, 
Lives for his children, ever at its best 
And fullest ; so the face before her lived. 
Dark-splendid, speaking in the silence, full 
Of noble things, and held her from her sleep. 
Till rathe she rose, half-cheated in the 

thought 
She needs must bid farewell to sweet 

Lavaine. 
First as in fear, step after step, she stole, 
Down the long tower-stairs, hesitathig : 
Anon, she heard Sir Lancelot cry in the 

court, 
"This shield, my friend, where is it?" and 

Lavaine 
Past inward, as she came from out the tower. 
I'here to his proud horse Lancelot turn'd, 

and smooth'd 
The glossy shoulder, humming to himself. 
Half-cnvions of the flaitcring hand, she drew 
Nearer and stood. He iook'd, and niore 

ama/.ed 
Than if seven men had set upon him, .saw 
The maiden standing in the dewy light. 
Ha had not dreamed she was so beautiful. 
Then came on him a sort of sacred fear. 
For silent, tho' he greeted her, she stood 
Rapt on his face as if it were a God's. 
Suddenly flashed on her a wild desire. 
That he should wear her favor at the tilt. 
She braved a riotons heart in asking for it. 
■' Fair lord, whose name I know not — noble 

it is, 
I well believe, the noblest — will von wear 
My favor at this tourney?" " Nav," said 

he, 
" Fair lady, since I never yet have w orn 
Favor of any lady in the lists. 
Such is my wont, as those, who know me, 

know." 
" Yea, so," she answer'd ; " then in wearing 

mine 
Needs must be lesser likelihood, noble lord. 
That those who know should know you." 

And he turn'd 
Her counsel up and down within his mind. 
And found it true, and answer'd, " True, my 

child. 
Well, I will wear it : fetch it out to me : 
What is it?" and she told him "a red 

sleeve 
Broider'd with pearls," and brought it : then 

he bound 
Her token on his helmet, with a smi'e 
Saying, " 1 never yet have done so much 



ELAINE. 



For niiy maiden living," and the blood 
Spraiifi; to her face, and fiU'd her with de- 

Hght ; 
But left her all the paler, when Lavaine 
Keturning brouglit the yet imblazon'd shield. 
His brother's ; uhicli he gave to Lance ot, 
Who parted with his own to fair Elaine ; 
" Do me this grace, my child, to have my 

shield_ 
In keejiing till I come." " A grace to me," 
She answer'd, " twice to-day. I am your 

Squire." 
Whereat Lavaine said, laughing, "Lily 

maid. 
For fear our people call you lily maid 
In earnest, let me br'ng your color back ; 
Once, twice, and thrice : now get you hence 

to bed ■' : 
So kiss'd her, and Sir Lancelot his own 

hand. 
And thus they moved away : she stay'd a 

mir.ule. 
Then made a sudden step to the gate, and 

there — 
Her bright hair blown about the serious face 
Yet rosy-kiudled with her brother's kiss — 
Paused in the gateway, standing by the 

shield 
In silence, while she watch'd their arms far- 
off 
Sparkle, until tliey dipt below the downs. 
Then to her lower she climb'd, and took the 

shield, 
There kept it, and so lived in fantasy. 

Meanwhile the new companions past away 
Far o'er the long backs ofihe busnless downs. 
To where .Sir Lancelot knew there lived a 

knight 
Not far from Camelot, now for forty years 
A hermit, who had pray'd, labor'd and pray'd 
And ever laboring had scoop'd himself 
In the white rock a chapel and a hall 
On massive columns, like a shorecliff cave, 
And cells and chambers : all were fair and 

dry ; 
The green light from the meadows under- 
neath 
Struck up and lived along the milky roofs ; 
And in the meadows trenuilnus aspen-trees 
And poplars made a noise of falling showers. 
And thither wending there that night they 
bode. 

But when the next day broke from under- 
ground. 
And shot red fire and shadows tliro' the cave, 
They rose, heard mass, broke fast, and rode 

away : 
Tlien Lancelot saying, " Hear, but hold my 

name 
Hidden, you ride with Lancelot of the Lake," 
Abashed Lavaine, whose instant reverence. 
Dearer to true young hearts than their own 

praise, 
Butleft him leave to stammer," Is it indeed? " 
And a'ter muttering " the ureat Lancelot " 
At last he got his breath and answer'd, " One, 



One have I seen — that other, our liege lord, 
Thedread Peudragon, Britain's king of kiut^s. 
Of whom the peo|)le talk mysteriously. 
He will be there — then were 1 stricken blind 
That minute, I might say that I had seen." 

So spake Lavaine, and when they reach'd 
tlie lists 
By Camelot in the meadow, let his eyes 
Run thro' the peopled gallery which half 

round 
Lay like a rainbow fall'n upon the grass, • 
Until they found the clear-faced King, who 

sat 
Robed in red samite, easily to be known, 
Since to his crown the golden dragon chni{j. 
And down his robe tliedraron w rithed in gold. 
And from the carven-work behind him crept 
Two dracons gi'ded, .sloping down to make 
Arms for his cliair, whiie all the rest of them 
Thro' knots and loops and folds innumer- 
able 
Fled ever thro' the woodwork, till they found 
The new design wherein they lost themselves. 
Yet wiih all ease, so tender was the work : 
And, in the costly canopy o'er him set, 
Blazed the last diamond of the nameless king. 

Then Lancelot answer'd young Lavaine 
and said, 
" Me you call great : mine is the firmer seat, 
The truer lance : but there is many a youth 
Now crescent, who will come to all I am 
And overcome it ; and in me there dwells 
No gre.-'.tness, save it he some tar off touch 
Of grcatiiess to know well I am not great: 
There is the n.an." And Lavaine gaped up- 
on him 
As on a thing miraculous, and anon 
'1 he tn:n-.pcls blew ; and then did either side, 
They that assailed, and they that held the 

lists, 
Set lance in rest, strike spur, suddenly move. 
Meet in the midst, and there so furiously 
Shock, tiiat a man far-off might well perceive. 
If any man that day were left afield, 
The hard earth shake, and a low thunder of 

arms. 
And Lancelot bode a little, till he saw 
Which were the weaker : then hehurl'd into it 
Against the stronger : little need to speak 
Of Lancelot in his glory : King, duke, earl, 
Coimt, baron — whom he smote, he over- 
threw. 

But in the field were Lancelot's kith and 

kin. 
Ranged with the Table Roimd that held the 

" lists, 
Strong men, and wrathful that a stranger 

knight 
Should do and almost overdo the deeds 
Of Lancelot ; and on^iaid to the other. " Lo I 
What is he ? I do not mean the force alone, 
The grace and versatility of the man — 
Is it not Lancelot ! " " When has Lancelot 

worn 
Favor of any lady in the lists? 




' Then to her tower she climb'd, and took the shield, 
There kept it, and so lived in fantasy." 



ELAINE. 



•9S 



Not such Ins wont, as we, that know him, 

^know." 
"How then? who then?" a fury seized on 

them, 
A fiery family passion for the name 
or Lancelot, and a glory one wall theirs. 
They couch'd their spears and pnclcd their 

steeds and thus, 
Their plumes driv'n backward by the wmd 

they made 
In moving, all together down upon him 
Bare, as a wild wave in the wild North-sea, 
Green-glimmering toward the sunniiit, bears, 

with all 
Its stormy crests that smote against the skies, 
Down on a bark, and (overbears the bark, 
And hiin that helms it, so they overbore 
Sir Lancelot and his charger, and a spear 
Down-glancing lamed the charger.and a spear 
Prick'd sharply his own cuirass, and the head 
Pierced thro' his side, and there snapt, and 

remain'd. 

Then Sir Lavaine did well and worship- 
fully : 
He bore a knight of old repute to the earth. 
And brought his horse to Lancelot where he 

lay. 
He up the side, sweating with agony, got. 
But thought to do whib he might yet endure 
And being lustily holpen by tlie rest. 
His party, — tlio' it seemed half-miracle 
To those he fought with — drave his kith and 

kin. 
And all the Table Round that held the lists. 
Back to the barrier ; then the heralds blew 
Proclaiming his the prize, who wore the 

sleeve 
Of scarlet, and the pearls ; and all the knights 
His party, cried " Advance, and take your 

prize 
The diamond " ; but heanswer'd, " Diamond 

me 
No dLamonds ! for God's love, a little air ! 
Prize me no prizes, for my prize is death I 
Hence will I and I charge you, follow me 

not." 

He spoke, and vanish'd suddenly from the 
field 
With young Lavaine into the poplar grove. 
There froiu his charger down he slid, and sat. 
Gasping to Sir Lavaine, " Draw the lance- 
head " : 
" Ah, my sweet lord. Sir Lancelot," said La- 
vaine, 
" [ dread me, if I draw it, 5'ou will die." 
But he, " I die already with it : draw — 
Draw" — and Lavaine drew, and that other 

gave 
A marvellous great shriek and ghastly groan, 
And h^lf his blood burst forth, and down he 

sank 
For the pure pain. and wholly swoon'd away. 
Then came the hermit out and bare him in. 
There stauch'd his wound ; and there, in 

daily doubt 
Whether to live or die, for many a week 



Hid from the wide world's rumor by the 

grove 
Of poplars with their noise of falling showers, 
And ever tremulous aspen-trees, he lay. 

But on that day when Lancelot fled the 

lists. 
His party, knights of utmost North and 

West, 
Lords of waste marches, kings of desolate 

isles. 
Came round their great Pendragon, saying 

to him, 
" Lo, Sire, our knight thro' whom we won 

the day 
Hath gone sore wounded, and hath left his 

prize 
Untakeu, crying that his prize is death." 
'■ Heaven hinder," said the King, " that 

such an one, 
.So great a knight as vvc have seen to-day — 
He seem'd to me another Lancelot — 
Yea, twenty times I thouglu him Lancelot — 
He must not pass uncared for. Gawain, rise, 
My nephew, and ride forth and find the 

knight. 
Wounded and wearied, needs must he be 

near. 
I charge you that you get at once to horse. 
And, knights and kings, there breathes not 

one of you 
Will deem this prize of ours is rashly given : 
His prowess was too wondrous. We will do 

him 
No customary honor: since the knight 
Came not to us, of us to claim the prize. 
Ourselves will send it after. Wherefore take 
This diamond, and deliver it, and return. 
And bring us what he is and how he fares. 
And cease not from your quest, until you 

find." 

So saying from the carven flower above, 
To which it made a restless heart, he took. 
And gave, the diamond : then from where he 

sat 
At Arthur's right, with smiling face arose. 
With smiling face and frowning heart, a Prince 
In the mid might and flourish of his May, 
Gawain, surnamed The Courteous, fair and 

strong. 
And after Lancelot, Tristram, and Geraint 
And Lamorack, a good knight, but there- 
withal 
Sir Modred's brother, of a crafty house, 
Nor often loyal to his word, and now 
Wroth that the king's command to sally forth 
In quest of whom he knew not, made him 

leave 
The banquet, and concourse of knights and 
kings. 

So all in wrath he got to horse and 
went ; 
Whili- Arthur to the banquet, dark in mood, 
Past, thinking, " Is it Lancelot whf) has come 
De.spite the wound he spake of, all for gain 
Of glory, and has added wound to wound. 



196 



ELAINE. 



And ridd'n away to die ? " So fear'd the 

King, 
And, after two days' tarriance there, return'd. 
Then when he saw the Queen, embracing, 

ask'd, 
" Love, are you yet so sick ? " " Nay, lord," 

she said. 
" And where is Lancelot ? " Then the 

Queen amazed, 
" Was he not with you ? won he not your 

prize? " 
" Nay, but one like him." " Why that like 

was he." 
And when the King demanded how she 

knew, 
Said, " Lord, no sooner had you parted from 

us, 
Than Lancelot toid me of a common talk 
That men went down before his spear at a 

touch, 
But knowing he was Lancelot ; his great 

name 
Conquer'd ; and therefore would he hide his 

name 
From all men, e'en the king, and [o this end 
Had made the pretext of a hindering wound. 
That he might joust unknown of all, and 

learn 
If liis old prowess were in aught decay'd : 
And added, ' Our true Arthur, when he 

learns, 
Will well allow my pretext, as for gain 
Of purer glory.' " 

Then replied the King : 
" Far lovelier in our Lancelot had it been, 
In lieu of idly dallying with the truth, 
To have trusted me as he has trusted you. 
Surely his king and most familiar friend 
Might well have kept his secret. True, in- 
deed. 
Albeit I know my knights fantastical, 
So fine a fear in our large Lancelot 
Must needs have moved my laughter : now 

remains 
But little cause for laughter : his own kin — 
111 news, my Queen, for all who love him, 

these ! 
His kith and kin, not knowing, set upon him ; 
So that he went sore wniuidcd from the field : 
Yet good news too : for goodly hopes are 

mine 
That Lancelot is no more a lonely heart. 
He wore, against his wont, upon his helm 
A sleeve of scarlet, broidered with great 

pearls, 
Some gentle maiden's gift." 

"Yea, lord," she said, 
" Your hopes are mine," and saying that she 

choked, 
And sharplv turn'd about to hide her face. 
Moved to her chamber, and there Hung her- 

.self 
Down on the great King's coucli, and writhed 

upon it. 
And cleT-^ch'd her fingers till they bit the 

pa'm, 
And shriek'd out " traitor " to ihe unhcaring 

wall, 



Then fiash'd into wild tears, and rose agam, 
And moved about her palace, proud and pale. 

Gawain the while thro' all the region round 
Rode with his diamond, wearied of the quest, 
Toiich'd at all points, except the poplar grove, 
And came at last, thn' lale, to Astolat \ 
Whom glittering in enamell'd arms the maid 
Glanced at, and cried " What news from 

Camelot, lord ? 
What of the knight with the red sleeve ? " 

" He won." 
"I knew it," she said. "But parted from 

the jousts 
Hurt in the side," whereat she caught her 

breath. 
Thro' her own side she felt the sharp lance 

go; 
Thereon she smote her hand : wellnigh she 

swoon'd : 
And while he gazed wonderingly at her, 

came 
The lord of Astolat out, to whom the Prince 
Reported who he was, and on what quest 
Sent, that he bore the prize and could not 

find 
The victor, but had ridden wildly round 
To seek him, and was wearied of tl;e search. 
To whom the lord of Astolat, " Bide with us, 
And ride no longer wildly, noble Prince ! 
Here v.as the knight, and here he left a shie'd; 
This will he send or come for : furthermore 
Our son is with him ; we shall hear anon, 
Needs must we hear." To this the cour- 
teous Prince 
Accorded with his wonted courtesy. 
Courtesy with a touch of traitor in it. 
And stay'd ; and cast his eyes on lair Elaine : 
Where could be found face daintier? then 

her shape 
From forehead down to foot perfect — again 
From foot to forehead exquisitely turn'd : 
" Well — if I bide, lo I this wild flower for 

me ! " 
And oft they met among the garden yews, 
And there he set himself to play upon her 
With sallying wit, free flashes from a height 
Above her, graces of t-he court, and songs, 
Si^hs, and slow smiles, and golden e'oquer.ce 
And amorous adulation, till the maid 
Rcbell'd against it, saying lo him, " Prince, 
O loyal nephew of our noble King, 
Why ask you not to see the shield he left. 
Whence you might learn his name ? Why 

slight your King, 
And lose the quest he sent you on, and prove 
No surer than our falcon yesterday. 
Who lootthe hern we .slipt him at, and went 
To all the winds? " " Nay, by mine head," 

said he, 
" I lose it, as we lose the lark in heaven, 
O damsel, in the light cf your blue eye:. : 
But an you will it let nic see the shiekl." 
And when the shield was brought, and Ga- 
wain S.TW 
Sir Lancelot's azure lions, cr.iwn'd with gold, 
Ramp in the field, he smote his thigh and 

niock'd ; 



ELAINE. 



" Right was the King ! our Lancelot J Jjiai 

true man ! " 
" And right was I," she answer'd merrily. "I, 
Who dreani'd my knight the greatest knight 

of all." 
" And if / dream'd, " said Gawain, " that you 

love 
This greatest knight, your pardon I lo, you 

know it ! 
Speak therefore : shall I waste myself in 

vain ? " 
Full simple was her answer : " What know I ? 
My brethren have been all my fellowship, 
And I. when often they have talk'd of love, 
Wish'd it had been my mother, for they 

talk'd, 
Meseem'd, of what they knew not ; so my- 
self— 
I know not if I know what true love is, 
But if r know, then, if I love not him, 
Methinks there is none other 1 can love." 
" Yea, by God's death," said he, " you love 

him well. 
But would not, knew you what all others 

know. 
And whom he loves." "So be it," cried 

Elaine, 
And lifted her fair face and moved away : 
But he pursued her calling, " Stay a little ! 
One golden minute's grace : he wore your 

sleeve : 
Would he break faith with one I may not 

name ? 
Must our true man change like a leaf at last? 
May it be so!" why then, far be it from me 
To cross our mighty Lancelot in his loves ! 
And, damsel, for I deem you know full well 
Where your great knight is hidden, let me 

leave 
My quest with you : the diamond also : here ! 
For it you love, it will be sweet to give it ; 
And if he love, it will be sweet to have it 
From your own hand ; and whether he love 

or not, 
A diamond is a diamond. Fare you well 
A thousand times ! — a thousand times fare- 

_ well ! 
Yet, if he love, and his love hold, we two 
May meet at court hereafter: there, 1 think. 
So you will learn the courtesies of the court, 
We two shall know each other." 

Then he gave. 
And slightly kiss'd the hand to which he 

gave, 
The diamond, and all wearied of the quest 
Leapt on his horse, and carolling as he went 
A true-love ballad, lightly rode away. 

Thence to the court he past ; there told 

the King 
What tlie Kinc; knew, " Sir Lancelot is the 

knight." 
And added, " Sire, my liege, so much I 

learnt : 
But fail'd to find him tho' I rode all round 
The region : but I lighted on the maid. 
Whose sleeve he wore ; she loves hira ; and 

to her. 



Deeming our courtesy is the truest law, 
1 gave the diamond : she will render it : 
For by mine head she knows his hiding- 
place." 

The seldom-frowning King frown'd, and 
replied, 
" Too courteous truly I you shall go no more 
On quest of mine, seeing that you forget 
Obedience is the courtesy due to kings." 

He spake and parted. Wroth but all \x. 
awe. 
For twenty strokes of the blood, without a 

word, 
Linger'd that other, staring after him ; 
Then shook his hair, strode off, and buzz d 

abroad 
About the maid of Astolat, and her love. 
All ears were prick'd at once, all tongues 

were loosed : 
"The maid of Astolat loves Sir Lancelot, 
Sir Lancelot loves the maid of A.stolat." 
Some read the King's face, some the Queen's, 

and all 
Had marvel what the maid might be, but 

most 
Predoom'd her as unworthy. One old dame 
Came suddenly on the Queen with the sharp 

news. 
She, that had heard the noise of it before, 
But sorrowing Lancelot should have stoop'd 

so low, 
Marr'd her friend's point with pale tranquil- 
lity. 
So ran the tale like fire about the court, 
Fire in dry stubble a nine days' wonder flared : 
Till ev'n the knights at banquet twice or thrice 
Forgot to drink to Lancelot and the Queen, 
And pledging Lancelot and the lily maid 
Smiled at each other, while the Queen who 

sat 
With lips severely placid felt the knot 
Climb in her throat, and with her feet unseen 
Crush'd the wild passion out against the lloor 
Beneath the banquet, where the meats be- 
came 
As wormwood, and she hated all who pledged. 

But far away the maid in Astolat, 
Her guiltless rival, she that ever kept 
The one-day-seen Sir Lancelot in her heart, 
Crept to her father, while he mused alone. 
Sat on his knee, stroked his gray face and 

said, 
" Father, you call me wilful, and the fault 
Is yours who let me have my will, and now. 
Sweet father, will you let me lose my wits?" 
" Nay," said he, "surely." " Wherefore let 

me hence," 
She answer'd, " and find out our dear La- 

vaine." 
" You will not lose your wits for dear Lavaine : 
Bide," answer'd he: "we needs must hear 



anon 
Of him, and of that other." "Ay," she said, 
" And of that other, for I needs must hence 
And find that other, whereso'er he be. 



1- 



JJ98 EL. 

lAnd with mine own hand give his diamond 

to him, 
iLest ] be found as faithless in the quest 
lAs yon proud Prince who left the quest to 

me. 
jSweet father, I behold him in my dreams 
Gaunt as it were the skeleton of himself, 
iDeath-pale, tor lack of gentle maiden's aid. 
1'he gentler-bom the maiden, the more 

bound. 
My father, to be sweet and serviceable 
I'o iiolile knights in sickness, as you know, 
When these have worn their tokens : let me 

lience 
I pray you." Then her father nodding said, 
"Av, av, the diamond: wit you well, my 

child, 
Right fain were I to learn this knight were 

whole, 
Being our greatest : yea, and you must give 

it — 
And sure I think this fruit is hung too high 
For any mouth to gape for save a Queen's — 
Nay, 1 mean nothing : so then, get you gone, 
Being so very wilful you must go." 

Lightly, her suit allow'd, she slipt away. 
And while she made her ready for her ride. 
Her lather's latest word humin'd in her ear, 
"Being so very wilful you must go," 
And changed itself and echoed in her heart, 
" Being so very wilful you must die." 
But she was happy enough and shook it off, 
As we shake off the bee that buzzes at us ; 
And in her heart she answer'd it and said, 
" What matter, so 1 helj) him back to life ?" 
Then far away with good Sir Torre for guide 
Kode o'er the long backs of the bushless 

downs 
To Camelot, and before the city-gates 
Came on her brother with a happy face 
Making a roan hnr.se caper and curvet 
Fi.r pleasure all about a field of flowers: 
Whom when she saw, "Lavaine," she cried, 

" Lavaine, 
How fares my lord Sir Lancelot?" He 

amazed, 
"Torre and Elaine! why here? Sir Lance- 
lot ! 
How know you my lord's name is Lancelot ? " 
But when the maid had told him all her tale. 
Then tum'd Sir Torre, and being in his 

moods 
Left them, and under the strange-statued 

gate. 
Where Arthur's wars were render'd mysti- 
cally. 
Past up the still rich city to his kin. 
His own far blood, which dwelt at Camelot ; 
And her Lavaine across the poplar grove 
Led to the caves : there first she saw the 

casque 
Of Lancelot on the wall : her scarlet sleeve. 
The' carved and cut, and half the pearls 

awav, 
Strcam'd from it still ; and in her heart she 

laugh'd. 
Because he had not loosed it from his helm. 



But meant once more perchance to tourney 

* in it. 
And when they galn'd the cell in which he 

slept. 
His battle-writhen arms and mighty hands 
Lay naked on the wolfskin, and a dream 
Of dragging down his enemy made them 

move. 
Then she that saw him lying unsleek, un- 
shorn. 
Gaunt as it were the skeleton of himself, 
Utter'd a little tender dolorous cry. 
The sound not wonted in a place so still 
Woke the sick knight, and while he roU'd 

his eyes 
Yet blank from sleep, she started to him, 

saying, 
" Your prize the diamond sent you by the 

King " : 
His eyes glisten'd : she fancied "is it for 

me ? " 
And vvhen the maid had fold him all the tale 
Of King and Prince, the diamond sent, the 

quest 
Assign'd to her not worthy of it, she knelt 
Full lowly by the corners of his bed. 
And laid the diamond in his open hand. 
Her face was near, and as we kiss the child 
That does the task assign'd, he kiss'd her 

face. 
At once she slipt like wafer to the floor. 
" Alas." he said, '" your ride has wearied you. 
Rest must you have." "No rest for me," 

she said ; 
" Nay, for near you, fair lord, I am at rest." 
What micht she mean by that? his large 

black eyes, 
Yet larger thro' his leanness, dwelt upon her, 
'i'ill all her heart's sad secret blazed itself 
In the heart's colors on her simple face ; 
And Lancelot look'd and was perplext in 

mind. 
And being weak in body said no more ; 
But did not love the color; woman's love. 
Save one, he not regarded, and .so tum'd 
Sighing, and feign'd a sleep until he slept. 

Then rose Elaine and glided thro' the 
fields, 
And past beneath the wildly-sculptured gate* 
Far up the dim rich city to her kin ; 
There bode the night : but woke with dawn, 

and past 
Down thro' the dim rich city to the fields. 
Thence to the cave : so day by day she past 
In either twilight ghost-like to and fro 
Gliding, and every day she tended him. 
And likewise many a night : and Lancelot 
Would, llio' he call'd his wound a little hurt 
Whereof he should be quickly whole, at times 
Rrainfeverous in his heat and agony, seem 
Uncourteous, even he : but the meek maid 
.Sweetly forbore hiin ever, being to him 
Meeker than any child to a rough nurse. 
Milder than any mother to a sick child, 
And never woman yet, since man's first fall. 
Did kindlier inito man, but her deep love 
Upbore her ; till the hermit, skill'd in all 



ELA INE. 



igg 



The simples and the science of that time. 
Told him that her fine care had saved his 

life. 
And the sick man forgot her simple blush, 
Would call her friend and sister, sweet 

Elaine, 
Would listen for her coming and regret 
Her parting step, and held her tenderly. 
And loved her with all love except the 

love 
Of man and woman when they love their 

best 
Closest and sweetest, and had died the 

death 
In any knightly fashion for her sake. 
And peradventure had he seen her first 
She might have made this and that other 

world 
Another world for the sick man ; but now 
The shackles of an old love straiten'd him. 
His honor rooted in dishonor stood, 
And faith unfaithful kept him falsely true. 

Yet the great knight in his mid-sickness 

made 
Full many a holy vow and pure resolve 
These, as but born of sickness, could not 

live : 
For when the blood ran lustier in him 

again. 
Full often the sweet image of one face, 
Making a treacherous quiet in his heart. 
Dispersed his resolution like a cloud. 
Then if the maiden, while that ghostly 

grace 
Beam'd on his fancy, spoke, he answer'd not. 
Or short and coldly, and she knew right 

well 
What the rough sickness meant, but what 

this meant 
She knew not, and the sorrow dimm'd her 

sight. 
And drave her ere her time across the 

fields 
Far into the rich city, where alone 
She murmur'd, " Vain, in vain : it cannot be. 
He will not love me : how then ? must I 

die?" 
Then as a little helpless innocent bird, 
That has but one plain passage of few 

notes. 
Will sing the simple passage o'er and o'er 
For .ill an Apni morning, till the ear 
Wearies to liear it, so the simple maid 
Went half the night repeating, "Must I 

die ?" 
And now to right she turn'd, and now to left, 
And tound no case in turning or in rest : 
And "him or death" she mutter'd, "death 

or him," 
Again and like a burthen, "him or death." 

But when Sir Lancelot's deadly hurt was 
whole, 
To Astolat returning rode the three. 
There morn by morn, arraying her sweet self 
In that wherein she deem'd she look'd her 
best, 



She came before Sir Lancelot, for she 

thought 
" If I be loved, these are my festal robes, 
If not, the victim's flowers before he fall." 
And Lancelot ever prest upon the maid 
That she should ask some goodly gift of 

him 
For her own self or hers ; " and do not shun 
To speak the wish most near to your true 

heart ; 
Such service have you done me, that I 

make 
My will of yours, and Prince and Lord 

am I 
hi mine own land, and what I will I can." 
Then like a ghost she litted up her face. 
But like a ghost without the power to 

speak. 
And Lancelot saw that she withheld her 

wish, 
And bode among them yet a little space, 
I'ill he should learn it; and one morn it 

chanced 
He found her in among the garden yews. 
And said, " Delay no longer, speak your 

svish, 
Seeing I must go to-day " : then out she 

brake ; 
" Going .'' and we shall never see you more. 
And I must die for want of one bold word." 
" Speak : that I live to hear," he said, " is 

yours." 
Then suddenly and passionately she spoke : 
" I have gone mad. I love you : let me 

die." 
"Ah sister," answer'd Lancelot, "what is 

this?" 
And innocently extending her white arms, 
" Your love," she said, " j'our love — to be 

your wife." 
And Lancelot answer'd, " Had I chos'n to 

wed, 
I had been wedded earlier, sweet Elaine: 
But now there never will be wife of mine." 
" No, no," she cried, " I care not to be wife, 
But to be with you still, to see your face. 
To serve you, and to follow you thro' the 

world." 
And Lancelot answer'd, " Nay, the world, 

the world. 
All ear and eye, with such a stupid heart 
To interpret ear and eye, and such a 

toneue 
To blare its own interpretation — nav. 
Full ill then should I quit your brother's 

love. 
And your cood father's kindness." And she 

said, 
" Not to be with you, not to see your face. 
Alas for me then, mv good days are done." 
" Nay. noble maid," he answer'd, " ten 

times nay ! 
This is not love : but love's first flash in 

youth. 
Most common : yea, I know it of mine own 

self: 
And you yourself will smile at your own 

»elf 



ELAINE. 



Hereafter, when you yield your flower of life 
To one more fitly yours, not thrice your age : 
And tlien will I, for true you are and sweet 
Beyond mine o.d belief in womanhood, 
More specially should your good knight be 

poor, 
Endow you with broad land and territory 
Even to the half my realm beyond the seas. 
So that would make you happy ; further- 
more, 
Ev 'n to the death, as the' you were my 

blood, 
In all your quarrels will I be your knight. 
This will I do, dear damsel, for your sake, 
And more than this I cannot." 

While he spoke 
She neither blush'd nor shook, but deathly- 
pale 
Stood grasping what was nearest, then re- 
plied, 
" Of all this will I nothing " ; and so fell. 
And thus they bore her swooning to her 
tower. 

Then spake, to whom thro' those black 

wails of yew 
Their talk had pierced, her father, "Ay, a 

flash, 
I fear me, that will strike my blossom dead. 
Too courteous are yon, fair Lord Lancelot. 
I pray you, use some rough discourtesy 
To blunt or break her passion." 

Lancelot said, 
" That were against me ; what I can I 

will " ; 
And there that day remain'd, and toward 

even 
Sent for his shield : full meekly rose the 

maid, 
Stript off the case, and gave the naked 

shield ; 
Then, when she heard his horse upon the 

stones, 
Unclasping flung the casement back, and 

look'd 
Down on his helm, from which her sleeve 

had gone. 
And Lancelot knew the little clinking sound : 
And she by tact of love was well aware 
That Lancelot knew that she was looking at 

him. 
And yet he glanced not up, nor waved his 

hand. 
Nor bade farewell, but sadly rode away. 
This was the one discourtesy that he used. 

So in her tower alone the maiden sat : 
His very shield was cone : only tlie case. 
Her own poor wnik, her empty labor, left. 
But still she heard him, still his picture 

form'd 
And grew between her and the pictured wall. 
Then came her father, saying in tow tones 
" Have comfort." whom she greeted quietly. 
Then came her brethren saying, " Peace to 

thee 
Sweet sister," whom she answer'd with all 

calm. 



But when they left her to herself again, 
Death, like a friend's voice from a dislar.t field 
Approaching thro' the darkness, called ; the 

owls 
Wailing had power upon her, and she mixt 
Her fancies with the sallow-rifted glooms 
Of evening, and the moanings of the wind. 

And in those days she made a little song, 
And call'd her song "The Song of Love and 

Death," 
And sang it : sweetly could she make and 

sing. 

"Sweet is true love, tho' given in vain, in 
vain ; 
And sweet is death who puts an end to pain : 
I know not which is sweeter, no, not L 

"Love, art thou sweet? then bitter death 
must be : 
Love, thou art bitter ; sweet is death to me. 

Love, if death be sweeter, let me die. 

" Sweet Love, that seems not made to fade 
away. 
Sweet deaih, that seems to make us loveless 
clay, 

1 know not which is sweeter, no, not \. 

" I fain would follow love, if that could be ; 
1 needs must follow death, who calls for me ; 
Call and I follow, I follow ! let me die." 

High with the last line scaled her voice, and 

this. 
All in a fiery dawning wild with wind 
That shook her tower, the brothers heard, 

and thought 
With shuddering, " Hark the Phantom of 

the house 
That ever shrieks before a death," and 

call'd 
The father, and all three in hurry and fear 
Ran to her, and lo ! the blood-red light of 

dawn 
Flared on her face, she shrilling " Let me 

die!" 

As when we dwell upon a word we know 
Repeating, till the word wc know so well 
Becomes a won lor and we know not why. 
So dwelt the father on her face and thought 
■' Is this Elaine? " till back the maiden fell, 
Then gave a languid hand to each, and lay, 
Speakmg a still good-morrow with her eyes. 
At last she said, " Sweet brothers, yester- 
night 
I see..rd a curious little maid again. 
As happy as when we dwelt among the 

woods. 
And when you used to take me with the 

flood 
Up the great river in the boatman's boat. 
Only you would not pass bevond the cape 
That has the poplar on it : there you fixt 
Your limit, oft returning with the tide 
And yet I cried because you would not pass 



ELAINE. 



Beyond it. and fai up the shining flood 
Until we found the palace of the king. 
And yet you would not ; but this night I 

dreain'd 
That I was all alone upon the flood, 
And then I said, ' Now shall I have my 

will ' : 
And there I woke, but still the wish re- 

main'd. 
So let me hence that I may pass at last 
Beyond the poplar and far up the flood, 
Until 1 find the p.ilace of the king. 
There will I enter in among them all, 
And no man there will dare to mock at me ; 
But tliere the fineGawain will wonder at me, 
And there the great Sir Lancelot muse at me ; 
Gawain, whobadeathojiaiid farewells to me, 
Lancelot, who coldly went nor bade me one : 
And there the King will know me and my 

love, 
And there the Queen herself will pity me. 
And all the gentle court will welcome me. 
And after my long voyage I shall rest ! " 

" Peace," said her father, "O my child, 

you seem 
Light-headed, for what force is yours to go. 
So far, being sick ? and wherefore would you 

look 
On this proud fellow again, who scorns us 

all.'" 

Then the rough Torre began to heave and 

move. 
And bluster into stormy sobs and say, 
" 1 never loved him : an I meet with him, 
I care not howsoever great he be. 
Then will I strike at him and strike, him 

down. 
Give me good fortune, T will strike him dead. 
For this discomfort he hath done the house." 

To which the gentle sister made reply, 
" Fret not yourself, dear brother, nor be 

wroth. 
Seeing it is no more Sir Lancelot's fault 
Not to love me, than it is mine to love 
Him of all men who seems to me the high- 
est." 

" Highest?" the Father answer'd, echoing 
" highest." 

(He meant to break the passion in her.) 
" Nay. 

Daughter, I know not what you call the high- 
est ; 

But this I know, for all the people know it, 
"He loves the Q.ieen, and in an open shame : 

And she returns his love in open shame. 

If this be high, what is it to be low?" 

Then spake the lily maid of Astolat : 
" Sweet father, all too faint and sick am I 
For anger : these are slanders : never yet 
Was noble man but made ignoble talk. 
He makes no friend who never made a foe. 
But now it is my glory to have loved 
One peerless, without stain : so let me pass. 
My father, howsoe'er I seem to you, 



Not all unhappy, having 1 wed God's best 
.And greatest, tho' my love had no return : 
Yet, seeing yon desire your child to live. 
Thanks, but you work against your own de- 
sire ; 
For if I could believe the things you say 
I should but die the sooner : wherefore cease, 
Sweet father, and bid call the ghostly man 
Hither, and let me shrive me clean, and die." 

So when the ghostly man had come and 

gone. 
She with a face, bright as for sin forgiven. 
Besought Lavaine to write as she devised 
A letter, word for word ; and when he ask'd 
" Is it for Lancelot, is it for my dear lord? 
Then will I bear it gladly " ; she replied, 
" For Lancelot and the Queen and all the 

world. 
But I myself must bear it." Then he wrote 
The letter she devised ; which being writ 
And folded, "O sweet father, tender and 

true. 
Deny me not," she said — " you never yet 
Denied my fancies — this, however strange, 
My latest : lay the letter in my hand 
A little ere 1 die, and close the hand 
Upon it ; I shall guard it even in death. 
And when the heat is gone from out my 

heart. 
Then take the little bed on which I died 
For Lancelot's love, and deck it like the 

Queen's 
For richness, and me also like the Queen 
In all I have of rich, and lay me on it. 
And let there be prepared a chariot-bier 
To take me to the river, and a barge 
Be ready on the river, clothed in black. 
I go in state to court, to meet the Queen. 
There surely I shall speak for mine own self. 
And none of you can speak for me so well. 
And therefore let our dumb old man alone 
Go with me. he can steer and row, and he 
Will guide me to that palace, to the doors." 

She ceased : her father promised ; where- 
upon 

She grew so cheerful that they deem'd her 
death 

Was rather in the fantasy than the blood. 

But ten slow mornings past, and on the elev- 
enth 

Her father laid the letter in her hand. 

And closed the hand upon it, and she died. 

So that day there was dole in Astolat. 

But when the next sun brake from under- 
ground, 
Then, those two brethren slowly with bent 

brows 
Accompanying, the sad chariot-bier 
Past like a shadow thro' the field, that shone 
Full summer, to that stream whereon tha 

barge, 
Pa'l'd all its length in blackest samite, lay. 
There sat the lifelong creature of the house, 
Loyal, the dumb old servitor, on deck. 
Winking his eyes, and twisted all his face. 



ELAINE. 



So those two brethren from the chariot took 
And on the black decks laid her in her bed, 
Set in her Iiand a lily, o'er her hung 
The silken case with braided blazonings, 
And kiss'd her quiet brows, and saying to 

her, 
" Sister, farewell forever," and again, 
" Farewell, sweet sister," parted all in tears. 
Then rose the dumb old servitor, and the 

dead 
Steer'd by the dumb went upward with the 

flood — 
In her right hand the lily, in her left 
The letter — all her bright hair streaming 

down — 
And all the coverlid was cloth of gold 
Drawn to her waist, and she herself in white 
All but her face, and that clear-teatured face 
Was lovely, for she did not seem as dead 
But fast asleep, and lay as tho' she smiled. 

That day Sir Lancelot at the palace craved 
Audience of Guinevere, to give at last 
The price of half a realm, his costly gift. 
Hard-won and hardly won with bruise and 

blow. 
With deaths of otliers, and almost his own. 
The nine-years-fought-for diamonds ; lor he 

saw 
One of her house, and sent him to the Queen 
Bearing his wish, whereto the Queen agreed 
With such and so unmoved a majesty 
She might have seem'd her statue, but that 

he. 
Low-drooping till he wellnigh kiss'd her 

feet 
For loyal awe, saw with a sidelong eye 
The shadow of a piece of pointed lace. 
In the Queen's shadow, vibrate on the walls. 
And parted, laughing in his courtly heart. 

All in an oriel on the summer side. 
Vine-clad, of Arthur's palace toward the 

stream, 
They met, and Lancelot kneeling utter'd 

" Queen, 
Lady, my liege, in whom I have mv joy, 
Take, what I had not won except for you. 
These jewels, and make me happy, making 

them 
An armlet for the roundest arm on earth, 
Or necklace for a neck to which the swan's 
Is tawnier than her cygnet's : these are 

words : 
Your beauty is your beauty, and I sin 
In speaking, yet O grant my worship of it 
Words, as we grant grief tears. Such sin in 

words 
Perchance, we both can pardon : but, my 

Queen, 
I hear of rumors flying thro' your court. 
Our bond, as not the bond of man and wife, 
Should have in it an absoluter (rist 
To make up that defect : let rumors be : 
When did not rumors flyi' these, as I trust 
That you trust me in your own nobleness, 
I may not well believe that you believe." 



While thus he spoke, half turned away, the 

Queen 
Brake from the vast oriel-embowering vine 
Leaf after leaf, and tore, and cast them off, 
Till all the place whereon she stood was 

green ; 
Then, when he ceased, in one cold passive 

hand 
Received at once and laid aside the gems 
There on a table near her, and replied : 

" It may be, I am quicker of belief 
Than you believe me, Lancelot of the Lake. 
Our bond is not the bond of man and wife. 
This good is in it, whatsoe'er of ill. 
It can be broken easier. I for you 
This many a year have done despite and 

wrong ' 

To one whom ever in ray heart of hearts < 

I did acknowledge nobler. What are these? [ 
Diamonds for me ! they had been thrice their , 

« orth j 

Being your gift, had you not lost your own. * 
To loyal hearts the value of all gifts 
Must vary as the giver's. Not for me ! I 

lor her ! for your new fancy. Only this i 

Grant me, I ] ray you : have your joys apart. ' 
I doubt not that however changed, you keep j 
So much of what is .crnceful : and myself j 
Would shun to break those bounds of courtesy ; 
In which as Arthur's queen ] move and ru'e ■' ' 
So cannot s|:eak my mind. An end to this ! ; 
A strange one ! yet I take it with Amen. ', 
So pray you, add my diamonds to her pearls ; , 
Deck her with these ; tell her, she shines me » 

down : j 

An armlet for an arm to which the Queen's | 
Is hacgaid, or a necklace lor a neck j 

O as ninth fairer — as a faith once fair | 

Was richer than these diamonds — hers not 

mine — 
Nay, by the mother of our Lord himself, 
Or hers or mine, mine now to work my will — 
She shall not have them.' 

Saying which she seized. 
And, thro' the casement standing wide for 

heat, 
Flung them, and down they flash'd, and 

smote the stream. 
Then from the smitten surface flash'd as it 

were, 
Diamonds to meet them, and they past away. 
Then while Sir Lancelot leant, in half disgust 
At love, life, all things, on the window ledge, 
(lose underneath his eyes, and right across 
Where these had fallen, slowly jiast the barge 
Whereon the lily maid of Aslolat < 

Lay smiling, like a star in blackest night. 

But the wild Queen, who saw not, burst 

away 
To weep and wail in secret ; and the barge 
On to the palace-doorway sliding, paused. 
There two stood arm'd, and kept the door;) 

to whom, b 

All up the marble stair, tier over tier. 
Were added mouths that gaped, and eyes 

that ask'd 



ELAINE. 



203 



" What is it ? " but that oarsman's Iiaggard 

f.ice, 
As hard and still as is the face that men 
Shape to iheir fancy's eye iVom broken rocks 
On some chlf-side, appall'd them, and they 

said, 
" He is enchanted, cannot speak — and she. 
Look how she sleeps — the Fairy Queen, so 

fair! 
Yea, but how pale ! what are they t flesh and 

blood? 
Or come to take the King to fairy land? 
For some do hold our Arthur cannot die, 
But that he passes into fairy land." 

While thus they babbled of the King, the 

King 
Came girt with knights : then turn'd the 

tongueless man 
From the half-face to the full eye. and ro.se 
And pointed to the damsel, and the doors. 
So Arthur bade the meek Sir Percjvale 
And pure Sir Galahad to uplift the maid; 
And reverently they bore her into hall. 
Then came the fine Gawain and wonder'd at 

her. 
And Lancelot later came and mused at her. 
At last the Queen herself and pitied her : 
But Arthur spied the letter in her hand, 
Stoopt, took, brake seal, and read it ; this 

was all : 

" Most noble lord. Sir Lancelot of the Lake, 
I, sometime call'd the maid of Asto'.at, 
Come, for you left me taking no farewell, 
Hither, to take my Last farewell of you. 
I loved you, and my love had no return. 
And therefore ray true love has been my 

death. 
And therefore to our lady Guinevere, 
And to all other ladies, I make moan. 
Pray for my soul, and yield me burial. 
Pray for my soul thou too, Sir Lancelot, 
As thou art a knight peerless." 

Thus he read. 
And ever in the readings lords and dames 
Wept, looking often from his face who read 
To hers which lay so silent, and at times. 
So touch'd were they, half-thinking that her 

lips, 
Who had devised the letter, moved again. 

Then freely spoke Sir Lancelot to them all : 
" My lord liege Arthur, and all ye that hear. 
Know that for this most gentle maiden's 

death 
Right heavy am I : for good she was and true. 
But loved me with a love beyond all love 
In women, whomsoever I have known. 
Yet to be loved makes not to love again : 
Not at my years, however it hold in vouth. 
I swear by truth and knighthood tliat I gave 
No cause, not willinsrly, tor sucli a love : 
To this t call my friends in testimony. 
Her brethren, and her father, who himself 
Besnucht me to be plain and biunt, and use, 
To break her passion, some discourtesv 
Against my nature : wiiat 1 cuuld, i did. 



I left her and I bade her no farewell. 

Tho' had I dreamt the damsel would have 

died, 
I might have put my wits to some rough use, 
And help'd her trotu herself." 

Then said the Queen 
(Sea was her wrath, yet working after norm), 
" You might at least have done her so niucli 

grace. 
Fair lord, as would have help'd her from her 

death." 
He raised his head, their eyes met and her? 

fell. 
He adding, 

" Queen, she would not be content 
Save that I wedded her, which could n.t be. 
Then might s!ie follow me thro' tlie worid, 

she ask'd ; 
It could not be. I told her that her love 
Was but the flash of youth, would darken 

down 
To rise hereafter in a stiller flame 
Toward one more worthy of her — then 

would I, 
More specially were he, she wedded, poor. 
Estate them with large land and territory 
In mine own realm beyond the narrow Mias, I 
To keep tliein in all joyance : more than r 

this 
I could not ; this she would not, and she 

died." 

He pausing, Arthur answerd, " O my 
knight. 
It will be to your worship, as my kni.;ht. 
And mine, as head of ail our Table Kound, 
To see that she be buried worshiptuliy." 

So toward that shrine which then in all the 

realm 
W.as richest, Arthur leading, slowly went 
The marshall'd order of their Table Round, 
And L.ancelot sad beyond his wont, to see 
The maiden buried, not as one unknown. 
Nor meanly, but with gorgeous obsequies. 
And mass, and rolling music, like a Queen. 
And when the knights had laid her comely 

head 
Low in the dust of half-forgotten kings, 
Then Arthur spake among them, " Let her 

tomb 
Be costly, and her image thereupon. 
And let the shield of Lancelot at her feet 
Re carven, and her lily in her hand. 
And let the story of her dolorous voyage 
For all trtie hearts be blazon'd on her Knnb 
In letters gold and azure!" which was 

wrought 
Thereafter ; but when now the lords and 

dames 1 

And people, fro.m the high door streaming, H 

brake \ 

Disorderly, as homeward each, the Queen, I 
Who mark'd Sir Lancelot where he moved] 

apart, \ 

Drew near, and si!:'h'd in passing " Lancelot, 1 
Forgive me ; mine was jealousy in love." 
He auswer'd with his eyes upon the ground. 



-t- 



GUINEVERE. 



"That is love's curse ; pass on, my Queen, 

forgiven." 
But Arthur who beheld his cloudy brows 
Approach'd him, and with hill affection Hung 
One arm about his neck, and spake and 

said : 

" Lancelot, my Lancelot, thou in whom I 

have 
Most joy and most affiance, for I know 
What thou hast been in battle by my side, 
And many a time have watch'd thee at the 

tilt . , 

Strike down the lusty and long-practised 

knight. 
And let the younger and imskill'd go by 
To win his honor and to make his name. 
And loved thy courtesies and thee, a man 
Made to be loved; — but now I would to 

God, ^ ^ 

For the wild people say wild thmgs of thee, 
Thou couldst have loved this maiden, 

shaped, it seems, 
By God for thee alone, and from her face. 
If one may judge the living by the dead. 
Delicately pure and marvellously tair. 
Who might have brought thee, now a lonely 

man 
Wifeless and heirless, noble issue, sons 
Born to the glory of thy name and fame. 
My knight, the great Sir Lancelot of the 

Lake." 

Then answer'd Lancelot, " Fair she was, 

my King, 
Pure, as you ever wish your knights to be. 
To doubt her fairness were to want an eye. 
To doubt her pureness were to want a 

heart, — 
Yea, to be loved, if what is worthy love 
Could bind him, but free love will not be 

bound." 

" Free love, so bound, were freest," said 
the King. 
" Let love be free ; free love is for the best : 
And, after heaven, on our dull side of death, 
What should be best, if not so pure a love 
Clothed in so pure a loveliness? yet thee 
She fail'd to bind, tho' being, as I t'link. 
Unbound as yet, and gentle, as I know." 

And Lancelot answer'd nothing, but he 

went, 
And at the inrunning of a little brook 
Sat by the river in a cove and watch'd 
The high reed wave, and lifted up his eyes 
And saw the barge that brought her moving 

down. 
Far-off, a blot upon the stream, and said 
Low in himself, "Ah simple heart and 

sweet. 
You loved me, damsel, surely with a love 
Far tenderer than my Queen's. Pray for 

thv soul ? 
Ay, that will L Farewell too — now at 

last — 
Farewell, fair lily. ' Jealousy in love ' ? 



Not rather dead love's harsh heir, jealous 

pride? 
Queen, if I grant the jealousy as of love. 
May not your crescent fear for name airi 

fame 
Speak, as it waxes, of a love that wanes ? 
Why did the King dwell on my name tome? 
Mine own name shames me, seeming a 

reproach, 
Lancelot, whom the Lady of the lake 
Stole from his mother — as the story runs — 
She chanted snatches of mysterious song 
Heard on the winding waters, eve and mom 
She kiss'd me saying thou art fair, my child. 
As a king's son, and often in her arms 
She bare me, pacing on the dusky mere. 
Would she had drown'd me in it, where'er it 

be ! 
For what am I ? what profits me my name 
Of greatest knight ? I fought for it, and have 

it : 
Pleasure to have it, none ; to lose it, pain : 
Now grown a part of me : but what use in it ? 
To make men worse by making my sin 

known ? 
Or sin seem less, the sinner seeming great? 
Alas for Arthur's greatest knight, a man 
Not after Arthur's heart ! 1 needs must 

break 
These bonds that so defame me : not without 
She wills it : would I, if she will'd it ? nay. 
Who knows ? but if I would not, then may 

God, 
I pray him, send a sudden Angel down 
To seize me by the hair and bear me far, 
And fling me deep in that forgotten mere. 
Among the tumbled fragments of the hills." 

So groan'd Sir Lancelot in remorseful pain. 
Not knowing he should die a holy man. 



GUINEVERE. 

Queen Guinevere had fled the court, and 

sat 
There in the holy house at Almesbury 
Weeping, none with her save a little maid, 
A novice : one low light betwixt them burn'd 
Blurr'd by the creeping mist, for all abroad, 
Beneath a moon unseen albeit at full. 
The white mist, like a face-cinth to the face. 
Clung to the dead earth, and the land was 

still. 

For hither had she fled, her cause of flight 
Sir Modred ; he the nearest to the King, 
His nephew, ever like a subtle beast 
Lay couchaut with his eyes upon the throne. 
Ready to spring, waiting a chance : for this. 
He chill'd the popular praises of the King, 
With silent smiles of slow dis)«ragement ; 
And tamper'd with the Lords of the White 

Horse, 
Heathen, the brood by Hengist left; and 

sought 
To make disruption in the Table Round 
Of Arthur, and to splinter it into feuds 




' Queen Guinevere had fled the court, and sat 
There in the holy house at Almesbury 
Weeoing, none with her save a little maid, 
A novice." 



GUINEVERE. 



20S 



Serving liis traitorous end ; and all his aims 
Were sharpen'd by strong hate for Lancelot. 

For thus it chanced one morn when all the 

court. 
Green-suited, but with plumes that mock'd 

the May, 
Had been, their wont, a-niayingand return'd, 
That Modred still in green, all ear and eye, 
Ciimb'd to the high top of the garden wall 
To spy some secret scandal if he might, 
And saw the Queen, who sat betwixt her best 
Enid, and lissome Vivien, of her court 
The wiliest and the worst ; and more than 

this 
He saw not, for Sir Lancelot passing by 
Spied where he couch'd, and as the garden- 
er's hand 
Picks from the colewort a green caterpillar. 
So from the high wall and the flowering grove 
Of grasses Lancelot pluck'd him by the heel, 
And cast him as a worm upon the way ; 
But when he knew the Prince tho' marr'd 

with dust. 
He, reverencing king's blood in a bad man, 
Made such excuses as he might, and these 
Full knightly without scorn ; for in those days 
No knight of Arthur's noblest dealt in scorn; 
But, if a man were halt or hunch'd, in him 
By those whom God had made full-limb'd 

and tall. 
Scorn was allow'd as part of his defect. 
And he was answer'd softly by the King 
And all his Table. So Sir Lancelot holp 
To raise the Prince, who rising twice or thrice 
Full sharply smote his knees, and smiled, 

and went : 
But, ever after, the sm.all violence done 
Rankled in him and ruffled all his heart. 
As the sharp wind that ruffles all day long 
A little bitter pool about a stone 
On the bare coast. 

But when Sir Lancelot told 
This matter to the Queen, at first she laugh'd 
Lightly, to think of Modred's dusty fall, 
Then shudder'd, as the village wife who cries 
" I shudder, some one steps across my 

grave ; " 
Then laugh'd again, but faintlier, for indeed 
She half-foresaw that he, the subtle beast. 
Would track her guilt until he found, and 

her* 
Would be forevermore a name of scorn. 
Henceforward rarely could she front in Hall, 
Or elsewhere, Modred's narrow foxv face. 
Heart-hiding smile, and gr.iy persistent eye : 
Henceforward too, the Powers that tend the 

soul, 
To help it from the death that cannot die, 
And s.ive it even in extremes, began 
To vex and plague her. Many a time for 

hours, 
Beside the placid breathings of the King, 
In the dead night, grim faces came and went 
Before her, or a vague spiritual fear — 
Like to some doubtful noise of creaking 

doors. 
Heard by the v"*<dier in a haunted house, 



That keeps the rust of murder on the walls — 
Held her awake ; or if she slept, she dream'd 
An aw lul dream ; tor then she seem'd to stand 
On some vast plain before a setting sun. 
And from the sun there swiftly made at her 
A ghastly something, and its shadow tlew 
Before her, till it touch'd her, and she 

turn'd — 
When lo ! her own, that broadening from 

her feet, 
And blackenmg, swallow'd all the land, and 

in it 
Far cities burnt, and with a cry she woke. 
And all this trouble did not pass but grew : 
Till ev'n the clear face of the guileless King, 
And trustful courtesies of household life. 
Became her bane ; and at the last she said, 
" O Lancelot, get thee hence to thine own 

land. 
For if thou tarry we shall meet again. 
And if we meet again some evil chance 
Will make the smouldering scandal break 

and blaze 
Before the people, and our lord the King." 
And Lancelot ever promised, but remain'd, 
And still they met and met. Again she said, 
" O Lancelot, if thou love me get thee hence," 
And then they were agreed upon a night 
(When the good King should not be there) 

to meet 
And part forever. Passion-pale they met 
And greeted : hands in hands, and eye to eye. 
Low on the border of her couch they sat 
Stammering and staring ; it was their last 

hour, 
A madness of farewells. And Modred 

brought 
His creatures to the basement of the tower 
For testimony : and crying with full voice, 
" Traitor, come out, ye are trapt at la.st," 

aroused 
Lancelot, who rushing outward lion-like 
Leapt on him, and hurl'd him headlong, and 

he fell 
Stunn'd, and his creatures took and bare hira 

off 
And all was still : then she, " The end is 

come 
And I am shamed forever"; and he said, 
" Mine be the shame ; mine was the sin ; but 

rise, 
And fly to my strong castle overseas ; 
There will I hide thee, till my life shall end. 
There hold thee with my life against the 

world." 
She answer'd, " Lancelot, wilt thou hold me 

so ? 
Nay friend, for we have taken our farewells. 
Would God. that thou couldst hide me from 

myself ! 
Mine is the shame, for I was wife, and thou 
Unwedded : yet rise now, and let us fly, 
For I will draw me into sanctuary. 
And bide my doom." So Lancelot got her 

horse. 
Set her thereon, and mounted on his own. 
And then they rode to the divided way. 
There kiss'd, and parted weeping : for he past 



206 



GUINEVERE. 



Love-loyal to the least wish of the Queen, 
Back to his land ; but she to Almesbury 
Fled all night long by glimmering waste and 

weald, 
And heard the Spirits of the waste and weald 
Moan as she fled, or thought she heard them 

moan : 
And in herself she moan'd, " Too late, too 

late i" 
Till in the cold wind that foreruns the morn. 
A blot in heaven, the Raven, flying high, 
Croak'd, and she thought, '" He spies a field 

of death ; 
For now the heathen of the Northern Sea, 
Lured by the crimes and Irailtles ot the court. 
Begin to slay the folk, and spoil the land." 

■ And when she came to Almesbury she 

spake 
There to the iflins, and said, " Mine enemies 
Pursue me, but, O peaceful Sisterhood, 
Receive, and yield me sanctuary, nor ask 
Her name, to whom ye yield it, till her time 
To tell you " : and her beauty, grace, and 

power 
Wrought as a charm upon them, and they 

spared 
To ask it. 

So the stately Queen abode 
For many a week, unknown, among the nuns; 
\ Nor with them mix'd, nor told her name, nor 
j sought, 

j Wrapt in lier grief, for housel or for shrift. 
But communed only with the little maid. 
Who pleased her with a babbling heedless- 
ness 
Which often lured her from herself; but now. 
This night, a rumor wildly blown about 
Came, that Sir Modred had usurp'd the 

realm. 
And lea'^ued him with the heathen, while the 

King 
Was waging war on Lancelot : then she 

thought, 
" With what a hate the people and the King 
Must hate me," and bow'd down upon her 

hands 
Silent, until the little maid, who brook'd 
No silence, brake it, uttering " Late ! so 

late ! 
What hour, I wonder, now?" and when she 

drew 
No answer, by and by began to hum 
An air the nuns had taught her ; " Late, so 

late ! " 
Which when she heard, the Queen look'd 

up, and said, 
"O maiden, if indeed you list to sing. 
Sing, and unbind my heart that I may weep." 
Whereat full willingly sang the little maid. 

" Late, late, so late ! and dark the night 
and chill ! 
Late, late, so late ! but we can enter still. 
Too late, too late ! ye cannot enter now. 

" No light had we : for that we do repent; 
And learning this, the bridegroom will relent. 
Too late, too late t ye cannot enter now. 



" No light : so late ! and dark and chill the 
nig In I 
O let us in, that we may find the light 1 
Too late, too late ! ye cannot enter novr. 

" Have we not heard the bridegroon\ is so 
sweet ? 

let us in, tho' late, to kiss his feet ! 
No, no, too late ! ye cannot enter now." 

So sang the novice, while full passionately. 
Her head uix)n her hands, remembering 
Her thought when first she came, wept the 

sad Queen. 
Then said the little novice prattling to her : 

" O pray you, noble lady, weep no more ; 
But let my words, the words of one so t^mall, 
Who knowing nothing knows but to obey. 
And it I do not there is penance given — 
Comfort your sorrows ; for they do not f ow 
F'rom evil done ; right sure am I of that. 
Who see your tender grace and slaieliness. 
But weigh your sorrows with our lord the 

King's, 
And weighing find them less ; for gone is he. 
To wage grim war against Sir Lancelot there, 
Round that strong castle where he holds the 

Queen ; ) 

And Modred whom he left in charge of all, ; 
The traitor — Ah sweet lady, the King's grief 
For his own self, and his own Queen, and 

realm. 
Must needs be thrice as great as any of ours. 
For n'.e, 1 tli.ink the saints 1 am not great. 
For if there ever come a grief to me 

1 cry my cry in silerice, and have done : | 
None knows it, and my tears have brought | 

nie good. I 

But even were the griefs of little ones ; 

As great as those of great ones, yet this grief i 
Is added to the griefs the great must bear, 
That howsoever much they may desire 
Silence, they cat. not veep behind a cloud : 
As even here they talk at Almesbury 
About the good Kinc and his wicked Queen, 
And were I such a King with such a Quucn, 
Well might I wish to veil her wickedness. 
But were I such a King, it could not be." 

Then to her own sad heart mutter'd the 

Queen, 
" Will the child kill me with her innocent 

talk?" 
But openly she answer'd, " Must not I, 
If this false traitor have displaced hii lord, 
Grieve with the common griet of all the 

realm ? " 

" Yea," said the maid, " this is all woman's 
grief. 
That ski' is woman, whose disloyal life 
Hath wrought confusion in the Table Round 
Which good King Arthur founded, years ago, 
With signs and miracies and wonders, there 
At Camelot, ere the coming of the Queen." 



GUINEVERt. 



207 



Then thought the Queen within herself 

a;:aii), 
" Will the child kill me with her foolish 

prate ? " 
But openly slie spake and said to her, 
" O Utile maid, shut in by nunnery walls. 
What canst thou know of Kings and Tables 

Round, 
Or what of signs and wonders, but the signs 
And simple miracles of thy nunnery ? " 

To whom the little novice garrulously : 
"Yea, but I know: the land was full of signs 
And wonders ere the coming of the Queen. 
So said my father, and himself was knight 
Of tlie great Table — ail the founding of it : 
And rode thereto from Lyonnesse, and he 

said 
That as he rode, an hour or maybe twain 
After the sunset, down the coast, he heard 
Strange music, and he paused and turning — 

there. 
All down the lonely coast of Lvonnesse, 
Each with a beacon-star upon his head, 
And with a wild sea hght about his feet. 
Ho saw them — headland after headland 

flame 
Far on into the rich heart of the west : 
And in the light the white mermaiden swam. 
And strong man-breasted things stood from 

the sea. 
And sent a deep sea-voice thro' all the land. 
To which the little elves of chasm and clet't 
Made answer, sounding like a distant horn. 
So said my father — yea, and furthermnre. 
Next morning, while he past the dim-lit 

woods. 
Himself beheld three spirits mad with joy 
Come dashing down on a tall wayside (lower, 
That shook beneath tliem, as the thistle 

sliakes 
When three gray linnets wrangle for the seed : 
And still at evenings on before his horse 
I'he flickering fairy-circle wheeTd and broke 
Flying, and link'd again, and wheel'd and 

broke 
Flying, for all the land was full of life. 
And when at last he came to Camelot, 
A wreath of airy dancers hand-in-hand 
Swung round the lighted lantern of the hall ; 
And in the hall itself was such a feast 
As never man had dream'd ; for every knight 
Had whatsoever meat he long'd for served 
By hands unseen ; and even as he said 
Down in the cellars merry bloated things 
Shoiilder'd the spigot, straddling on the butts 
While the wine ran: so glad were spirits and 

men 
Before the coming of the sinful Queen." 

Then spake the Queen, and somewhat 

bitterly, 
" Were they so glad ? ill prophets were they 

all, 
Spirits and men : could none of them foresee, 
Not even thy wise father with his signs 
And wonders, what has faU'n upon the 

realm .' " 



To whom the novice garrulously again : 
"Yea, one, a bard ; of whom my father said. 
Full many a noble war-song had he sung, 
Ev'n in the presence of an enemy's Heet, 
Between the steep clilf and the coming wave ; 
And many a mystic lay of lite and death 
Had chanted on the smoky mountain-tops. 
When round him bent the spirits of the hills 
With all their dewy hair blown back like 

flame : 
So said my father — and that night the bard 
Sang Arthur's glorious wars, and sang the 

King 
As welhiigh more than man, and rail'd at 

those 
Who call'd him the false son of Gorlois : 
For there was no man knew from whence he 

came ; 
But after tempest, when the long wave broke 
All down the thundering shores of Bude and 

Bos, 
There came a day as still as heaven, and then 
They found a naked child upon the sands 
Of dark Dundagil by the Cornish sea : 
And that was Arthur ; and they foster'd him 
Till he by miracle was approven king : 
And that his grave should be a mystery 
From all men, like hisbirth; and could he find 
A wcmian in her womanhood as great 
As he was in his manhood, then, he sang. 
The twain together well might change the 

world. 
But even in the middle of his song 
He falter'd, and his hand fell from the harp. 
And pale he turn'd, and reel'd, and would 

have fall'n. 
But that ihey stay'd liim up ; nor would he 

tell 
His vision : but what doubt that lie foresaw 
This evil work of Lancelot and the Queen ? " 

Then thought the Queen, " Lo ! they have 

set her on, 
Our simple-seeming Abbess and her nuns. 
To play upon me," and bow'd her head nor 

spake. 
Whereat the novice crying, with clasp'd 

hands, 
Shame on her own garrulity garrulously. 
Said the good nuns would check her gadding 

tongue 
Full often, " And, sweet lady, if I seem 
To vex an ear too sad to listen to me. 
Unmannerly, with prattling and the tales 
Which my good father told me, check me 

too : 
Nor let me shame my father's memory, one 
Of noblest manners, tho' himself would sav 
Sir Lancelot had the noblest ; and he died, 
Kiil'd in a tilt, come next, five summers 

back. 
And left me : but of others who remain. 
And of the two first-famed for courtesy — 
And pray you check me if I ask ainiss — 
But pray you, which had noblest, while you 

moved 
Among them, Lancelot or our lord the 

King?" 



2o8 



GUINEVERE. 



Then the pale Queen look'd up and an 
swer'd her, 
" Sii Lancelot, as became a noble knight, 
\\'as gracious to all ladies, and the same 
In open battle or the tilting-field 
Forbore his own advantage, and these two 
Were the most nobly-manner'd men of all ; I 
For manners are not idle, but the fruit 
Of loyal nature, and of noble mind." 

" Yea," said the maid, " be manners such 
fair fruit ? 
Then Lancelot's needs must be a thousand- 
fold 
Less noble, being, as all rumor runs, 
The most disloyal friend in ail the world." 

To which a mournful answer made the 

Queen, 
" O closed about by narrowingnunnery-walls. 
What knowest thou of the world, and all its 

lights 
And shadows, all the wealth and all the woe ? 
If ever Lancelot, that most noble knight. 
Were for one hour less noble than himself. 
Pray for him that he scape the doom of fire. 
And weep for her, who drew him to his 

doom." 

" Yea," said the little novice, " I pray for 
both ; 
But I should ail as soon believe that his. 
Sir Lancelot's, were as noble as the King's, 
As I could think, sweet lady, yours would be 
Such as they are, were you the sinful Queen." 

So she, like many another babbler, hurt 
Whom she would soothe, and harm'd where 

she would heal ; 
For here a sudden flush of wrathful heat 
Fired all the pale face of the Queen, who 

cried, 
" Such as thou art be never maiden more 
Forever ! thou their tool, set on to plague 
And play upon, and harry me, petty spy 
And traitress." When that storm of anger 

brake 
Frnm Guinevere, aghast the maiden rose, 
White as her veil, and stood before the 

Queen 
As tremulously as foam upon the beach 
Stands in a wind, ready to break and fly. 
And when the Queen had added " Get thee 

hence ! " 
Fled frighted Then that other left alone 
Sivh'd, and began to gather heart again. 
Saving in herself, " Tlie simple, fearful child 
Meant nothing, but my own loo-fearful guilt 
Simpler than any child, betrays itself. 
I'lii help me, heaven, for surely I repent. 
For what is true repentance but in thought — 
Not e'en in inmost thought to think again 
The sins that made the past so pleasant to 

us : 
And I have sworn never to see him more, 
To see him more." 

And e'en in saying tliis, 
Her memory from old habi' of the mind 



Went slipping back upon the golden days 
In which she saw him first, when Lancelot 

came. 
Reputed the best knight and goodliest man. 
Ambassador, to lead her to his lord 
Arthur, and led her forth, and far ahead 
Of his and her retinue moving, they. 
Rapt in sweet thought, or lively, all on love 
And sport and tilts and pleasure, (for the 

time 
Was maytime, and as yet no sin was 

dream 'd,) 
Rode under groves that look'd a paradise 
Of blossom, over sheets of hyacinth 
That seem'd the heavens upbreaking thro' 

the earth. 
And on from hill to hill, and every day 
Beheld at noon in seme delicious dale 
The silk pavilions of King Arthur raised 
For brief repast or afternoon repose 
By couriers gor.e before ; and on again, 
Till yet once more ere set of sun they saw 
The Dragon of the great Pendraeon-ship, 
1 hat crown'd the state pavilion of the King, 
Blaze by the rushing brook or silent well. 

But when the Queen immersed in such a 

trance. 
And moving thro' the past unconsciously, 
Came to that point, when first she saw the 

King 
Ride toward her from the city, sigh'd to find 
Her journey done, glanced at him, thought 

him cold. 
High, ^elf contain'd, and passionless, not 

like him, 
" Not like my Lancelot " — while she brood- 
ed thus 
And grew half-guilty in her thoughts again, 
There rode an armed warrior to the doors. 
A murmuring whisper thro' the nunnery ran. 
Then on a sudden a cry, "The King." She 

sat 
Stiff-stricken, listening ; but when armed 

feet 
Thro' the long gallery from the outer doors 
Rang coming, prone from off her seat she 

fell. 
And grovell'd with her face against the floor : 
There with her milkvvhite arms and shadowy 

hair 
She made her face a darkness from the King : 
And in the darkness heard his armed feet 
Pause by her ; then came silence, then a 

voice. 
Monotonous and hollow like a Ghost's 
Denouncing judgment, but the' changed the 

King's. 

" Liest thou here so low, the child of one 
I honor'd, happy, dead before thy shame ? 
Well is it that no child is born of thee. 
The children born of thee are sword and fire, 
Red ruin, and the breaking up of laws. 
The craft of kindred and the Godless hosts 
Of heathen swarming o'er the Northern .Sea. 
Whom I, while yet Sir Lancelot, my right 
arm. 



GUINEVERE. 



209 



The mightiest of my knlRhts abode with me, 
Have everywhere about this land of Christ 
In twelve great battles ruining overthrown. 
And knowest thou now from whence I come 

— from him, 
From waging bitter war with him : and he. 
That did not shun to smite me in w()rse way. 
Had yet that grace of courtesy in him left. 
He spared to lift his hand against the King 
Who made him knight : but many a knight 

was slain ; 
And manv more, and all his kith and kin 
Clave to him, and abode in his own land. 
And many more when Modred raised revolt, 
Forgetful of their troth and fealty, clave 
To Modred, and a remnant stays with me. 
And of this remnant will I leave a part. 
True men who love mestill, for whom I live, 
To guard thee in the wild hour coming on. 
Lest but a hair of tliis low head be harm'd. 
Fear not : thou shall be guarded till my 

death. 
Howbeit I know, if ancient prophecies 
Have err'd not, that I march to meet my 

doom. 
Thou hast not made my life so sweet to ine. 
That I the King should greatly care to live ; 
For thou hast spoilt the purpose of my life. 
Bear %vith me for the last time while \ show, 
Ev'n for thy sake, the sin wh ch tliou has 

sinn'd. 
For when the Roman left us, and their law 
Relax'd its hold upon us, and the v^iays 
Were fiU'd with rapine, here and there a deed 
Of prowess done redress'd a random wrong. 
But I was first of all the kings vvho drew 
Tlie knighihooderrant of thii realm and all 
The realms together under me, their Head, 
In that fair order of my Table Round, 
A glorious company, the flower of men, 
To serve as model for the mighty world, 
And be the fair beginning of a time. 
I made them lay their hands in mine and 

swear 
To reverence the King, as if he were 
Their conscience, and their conscience as 

their King, 
To break the heathen and uphold the Christ, 
To ride abroad redressing human wrongs. 
To speak no slander, no, nor listen to it. 
To lead sweet lives in purest chastity. 
To love one maiden only, cleave to her. 
And worship her by years of noble deeds. 
Until they won her ; for indeed I knew 
Of no more subtle master under heaven 
Than is the maiden passion for a maid, 
Not only to keep down the base in man. 
But teach high thought, and am'able words 
And courtliness, and the desire of fame. 
And love of truth, and all that makes a man. 
And all this throve until I wedded thee ! 
Believing " lo mine helpmate, one to feel 
My purpose and rejoicing in my joy." 
Then came thy shameful sin with Lancelot ; 
Then came the sin of Tristram and Isoh: 
Then others, following these my mightiest 

knights. 
And drawing foul ensample from fair names, 



Sinn'd also, till the loathsome opposite 
Of all my heart had destined did obtain. 
And all thro' thee ! so that this life of mine 
I guard as God's high gift from scathe and 

wrong. 
Not greatly care to lose; but rather think 
How sad it were for Arthur, should he live. 
To sit once more within his lonely hall, 
And miss the wonted number of my knights. 
And miss to hear high talk of noble deeds 
As in the golden days before thy sin. 
For which of us, who might be left, could 

speak 
Of the pure heart, nor seem to glance at thee ? 
And in thy bowers of Camelot or of Usk 
Thy shadow still would glide from room to 

room. 
And I should evermore be vext with thee 
In lianging robe or vacant ornament. 
Or ghostly footfall echoing on the stair. 
For think not, tho' thou wouldst not love thy 

lord. 
Thy lord has wholly lost his love for thee. 
I am not made of so slight elements. 
Yet must I leave thee, woman, to thy shame. 
I hold that man the worst of public foes 
Who either for his own or children's sake, 
To save his blood from scandal, lets the wife 
Whom he knows false, abide and rule the 

house : 
For being thro' his cowardice allow'd 
Her station, taken everywhere for pure. 
She like a new disease, unknown to men, 
Creeps, no precaution used, among the crowd, 
Makes wicked lightnings of her eyes, and 

saps 
The fealty of our friends, and stirs the pulse 
With devil's leaps, and poisons half the 

young. 
Worst of the worst were that man he that 

reigns ! 
Better the King's waste hearth and aching 

heart 
Than thou reseated in thy place of light. 
The mockery of my people, and their bane." 

He paused, and in the pause she crept an 

inch 
Nearer, and laid her hands about his feet. 
Far off a solitary trumpet blew. 
Then waiting by the doors the war-horse 

neigh'd 
As at a friend's voice, and he spake again : 

" Yet think not that I come to urge thy 

crimes, 
I did not come to curse thee, Guinevere, 
I, whose vast pity almost makes me die 
To see thee, laying there thy golden head. 
My pride in happier summers, at my feet. 
The wrath which forced my thoughts on that 

fierce law. 
The doom of treason and the flaming death, 
(When first I learnt thee hidden here) is past. 
The pang — which while 1 wt:igh'd thy heart 

with one 
Too wholly true to dream untruth in thee. 
Made my tears burn — is also past, in part. 



GUINEVERE. 



And all is past, the sin is sinn'd, and I, 
Lo ! 1 forgive thee, as Eternal God 
forgives : do thou for thine own son] the rest. 
But how to take last leave of all 1 loved ? 

golden hair, with which I used to play 
Not knowing ! O imperial-moulded form, 
And beauty such as never woman wore. 
Until it came a kingdom's curse with thee — 

1 cannot touch thy lips, they are not mine. 
But Lancelot's : nay, they never were the 

King's. 
I cannot take thy hand ; that too is flesh, 
And in the flesh thou hast sinn'd; and mine 

own flesh. 
Here looking down on thine polluted, cries 
' 1 loathe thee ' ; yet not less, O Guinevere, 
For I was ever virgin save for thee, 
My love thro' flesh hath wrought into my life 
So far, that my doom is, I love thee still. 
Let no man dream but that 1 love thee still. 
Perchance, and so thou purify thy soul, 
And so thou lean on our lair father Christ, 
Hereafter in that world where all are pure 
We two may meet before high God, and thou 
Wilt spring to me, and claim me thine, and 

know 
I am thine husband — not a smaller soul. 
Nor Lancelot, nor another. Leave me that, 
I charge ihee, my last hope. Now must I 

hence. 
Thro' the thick night I hear the trumpet 

blow : 
They summon me their King to lead mine 

hosts 
Far down to that great battle in the west. 
Where I must strike against my sister's son. 
Leagued with the lords of the White Horse 

and knights 
Once mine, and strike him dead, and ineet 

myself 
Death, or I know not what mysterious doom. 
And thou remaining liere wilt learn the 

event ; 
But hither shall I never come again. 
Never lie by thy side, see thee no more. 
Farewell ! " 

And while she grovell'd at his feet. 
She felt the King's breath wander o'er her 

neck. 
And, in the darkness o'er her fallen head. 
Perceived the waving of his hands that blest 

Then, listening till those armed steps were 

gone. 
Rose the pale Queen, and in her anguish 

found 
The casement : " Peradventure," so she 

thought, 
" If I mieht see his face, and not be seen." 
And lo, he sat on horseback at the door ! 
And near him the sad nuns with each a light 
Stood, and he gave them charge about the 

Queen, 
To guard and foster her forevermore. 
And while he spake to these his helm was 

lowcr'd. 
To which for crest the golden dragon clung 
Of Britain ; so she did not see the face. 



Which then was as an angel's, but she saw, 
Wet with the mists and smitten by the lights, 
The Dracoii of the great Pendragonship 
Blaze, making all the night a steam of fire. 
And even then he turn'd ; and more and mora 
The moony vapor rolling round the King, 
Who seem'd the phantom of a Giant in it, 
Enwound him fold by fold, and made him gray 
And grayer, till himself became as mist 
Before her, moving ghostlike to his doom. 

Then she stretch'd out her arms and cried 
aloud, 
" O Arthur ! " there her voice brake sud- 
denly, 
Then — as a stream that spouting from a cliff 
Fails in mid-air, but gathering at the base 
Re-makes itself, and flashes down the vale — 
Went on in passionate utterance. 

" Gone — my lord I 
Gone thro' my sin to slay and to be slain ! 
And he forgave me, and I could not speak. 
Farewell .' I should have answer'd his fare- 
well. 
His mercy choked me. Gone, my lord the 

King, 
My own true lord ! how dare I call him 

mine ? 
The shadow of another cleaves to me. 
And makes me one pollution : he, the King, 
Call'd me polluted : slmll I kill myself.' 
What help in that ? I cannot kill my sin, 
If soul be sfiul ; nor can 1 kill my shame; 
No, nor by living can I live it down. 
The days will grow to weeks, the weeks to 

months. 
The months wilj add themselves and make 

the years. 
The years will roll into the centuries. 
And mine will ever be a name of scorn.- 
I must not dwell on that defeat of fame. 
Let the world be ; that is but of the world. 
What else? what hope? I think there was a 

hope. 
Except he mock'd me when he spake of hope ; 
His hope he call'd it ; but he never mocks, 
For mockery is the fume of little hearts. 
And blessed be the King, who hath forgiven 
My wickedness to him, and left me hope 
That in mine own h' art I can live down sin 
And be his mate heieafter in the heavens 
Before high God. Ah great and gentle lord, 
Who wast, as is the conscience ot a saint 
Among his warring senses, to thy knights — 
To whom my false voluptuous pride, that 

took 
Full easily all impressions from below. 
Would not look up, or half-despised the 

height 
To which 1 would not or I could not climb — 
1 thought I could not breathe in that fine air 
That pure severity of perfect light — 
I wanted warmth and color which I found 
In Lancelot — now I see thee what thou art. 
Thou art the highest and most human too. 
Not Lancelot, nor another. Is there none 
Will tell the King I love him tlio' so late ? 
Now — ere he goes to the great Battle ? none: 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



Mvself muit tell him in that purer hfe. 
But now it were too daring. Ah my Ood, 
What might 1 not have made of thy lair 

world. 
Had 1 bill loved thy highest creature here ? 
pt was my duty to have loved the highest : 
fit surely was mv profit had 1 known : 
It would have been my pleasure had I seen. 
(We needs must love the highest when we 

see it, J 

Not Lancelot, nor another.' ,, . , , 
Here her hand 
Gnisp'd, made her veil her eyes : she look'd 

and saw . j -j , 

[The novice, weeping, suppliant, and said to 
1 her, . , „ 

'"Yea, little maid, for am / not forgiven .' 
vThen glancing up beheld the holy nuns 
lAll round her, weeping ; and her heart was 

loosed . 

Within her, and she wept with these and said : 
" Ye know me then, that wicked one, who 
broke 
The vast design and purpose of the King 

shut me round with narrowing nunnery- 

walls. 
Meek maidens, from the voices crying 
' Shame.' 

1 must not scorn myself: he loves me still. 
Let ,.o one dream but that he loves me still. 
So let me, if you do not shudder at me 
Nor shun to call me sister, dwell with you : 



Wear black and white, and be a nun like you ; 
Fast with your fasts, not feasting with your 

leasts ; 
Grieve with your griefs, not grieving at your 

joys, 
But not rejoicing ; mingle with your rites ; 
Pray and be prayed for; lie before your 

shrines ; 
Do each low office of your holy house ; 
Walk your dim cloister, and distribute dole 
To poor sick people, richer in his eyes 
Who ransom'd us, and haler too than I ; 
And treat their loathsome hurts and heal 

mine own ; 
And so wear out in almsdeed and in prayer 
The sombre close of that voluptuous day. 
Which wrought the ruin of my lord the King." 

She said : they took her to themselves; and 

she . , ^,1 

Still hoping, fearing " Is it yet too late? 
Dwelt with them, till in time their Abbess 

died. 
Then she, for her good deeds and her pure 

life, . . , 

And for the power of ministration in her. 
And likewise for the high rank she had 

borne. 
Was chosen Abbess, there, an Abbess lived 
For three brief years, and there, an Abbess, 

past 
To where beyond these voices there is peace. 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



Long lines of clifT breaking have left a 
chasm : 
And in the chasm are foam and yellow sands ; 
Beyond, rjd roofs about a narrow wharf 
In cluster ; then a moukler'd church ; and 

higher 
A long street climbs to one talltower'd mill ; 
And high in heaven behind it a gray down 
With Danish barrows ; and a hazel-wood. 
By autiunn nutters haunted, flourishes 
Green in a cuplike hollow of the down. 

Here on this beach a hundred years ago. 
Three children of three hnnses, Annie Lee, 
The prettiest little damsel in the port. 
And Philip Ray, the miller's only son. 
And Enoch Arden, a rough .sailor's lad 
Made orphan by a winter shipwreck, play'd 
Among the waste and lumber of the shore. 
Hard coils of cordage, swarthy fi.shing nets. 
Anchors of rusty fluke, and boats up-drawn ; 
And built their castles of dissolving sand 
To watch them overflow'd, or following up 
And Hying the white breaker, daily left 
The little footprint daily wash'd away. 



A narrow cave ran in beneath the cliff: , 
In this the children play'd at keeping house. 
Enoch was host one day. Philip the next. 
While Annie still was mistress ; but at times 
Enoch would hold possession for a week : 
" This is my house and this my little wife." 
"Mine too," said Philip, "turn and tiira 

about" : 
When, if they quarrell'd, Enoch stronger- 
made 
Was master: then would Philip, his blue 

eyes 
All flooded with the helpless wrath of tears, 
Shriek out, "I hate you, Enoch," and at 

this 
The little wife would weep for company. 
And pray them not to quarrel for her sake. 
And say she would be little wife to both. 

But when the dawn of rosy childhood past. 
And the new warmth of life's ascending sun 
Was felt by either, eilliT fixt his heart 
(In that one girl : and Enoch sjioke his love, 
B'lt Philip loved in silence ; and the srirl 
Seein'd kinder unto Philip than to him ; 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



But she loved Enoch ; tho' she knew it not. 
And would if ask'd deny it. Enoch set 
A purpose evermore belore his eyes, 
To hoard all savings to the uttermost, 
To purchase his own boat, and make a home 
For Annie : and so prosper'd that at last 
A luckier or a bolder fisherman, 
A carehiller in lieril, did not breathe 
For leagues along that breaker-benten coast 
Than Enoch. Likewise had he served a year 
On board a merchantman, and made himself 
Full sailor; and he thrice had pluck'd a life 
From the dread sweep of the down-stream- 
ing seas: 
And all men look'd upon him favorably : 
And ere he touch'd his one-and-twentieth 

May, 
He purchased his own boat, and made a 

home 
For Annie, neat and ncstlike, half-way up 
The narrow street that clamber'd toward the 
mill. 

Then, on a golden autumn eventide, 
The younger people making holiday. 
With bag and sack and basket, great and 

small. 
Went nutting to the hazels, Philip stay'd 
(His father lying sick and needing him) 
An hour behind ; but as he climb'd the hill. 
Just where the prone edge of the wood began 
To feather toward the hollow, saw the pair, 
Enoch and Annie, sitting hand-in-hand. 
His large gray eyes and weather-beaten face 
All-kindled by a still and sacred fire. 
That burned as on an altar. Philip look'd, 
And in their eyes and faces read his doom ; 
Then, as their faces drew together, groan'd 
And slipt aside, and like a wounded life 
Crept down into the hollows of the wood ; 
There, while the rest were loud with merry- 
making. 
Had his dirk hour unseen, and rose and past 
Bearing a lifelong hunger in his heart. 

So these were wed, and merrily rang the 
bells, 
And merrily ran the years, seven happy 

years. 
Seven happy years of health and compe- 
tence. 
And mutual love and honorable toil ; 
With children ; first a daughter. In him 

woke. 
With his first babe's first cry, the noble wish 
To save all earnings to the uttermost. 
And give his child abetter bringing-up 
Than his had been, or hers ; a wish renew'd, 
When two vears after cime a boy to be 
The rosv idol of her solitudes, 
While Enoch was abroad on wrathful seas, 
Or often journeving landward ; for in truth 
Enoch's white horse, and Enoch's ocean- 
spoil 
In ocean-smelling osier, and his face, 
Rongh-redden'd with a thousand winter- 
gales. 
Not only to the market-cross were known, 



But in the leafy lanes behind the down, 
Far as the portal-warding lion-whelp, 
And peacock -yewtree of the lonely Hall, 
Whoss Friday tare was Enoch's ministering. 

Then came a change, as all things human 

change. 
Ten miles to northward of the narrow port 
Open'd a larger haven : thither used 
Enoch at times to go by land or sea ; 
And once when there, and clambering on a 

mast 
In harbor, by mischance he slipt and fell : 
A limb was broken when they lifted him ; 
And while he lay recovering there, his wife 
Bore him another son, a sickly one : 
Another hand crept too across his trade 
Taking her bread and tlieirs : and on him 

fell, 
Altho' a grave and staid God-fearing man, 
Vet lying thus inactive, doubt and gloom. 
He secm'd, as in a nightmare of the night, 
I'o see his childern leading evermore 
Low miserable lives of hand-to-moulh, 
Ar.d her, he loved, a beggar : then he piay'd 
" Save them from this, whatever comes to 

me." 
And while he pray'd, the master of that ship 
Enoch had served in, hearing his mischance, 
Came, for he knew the man and valued 

him, 
Reporting of his vessel China-bound, 
And wanting yet a boatswain. Would he go? 
There yet were many weeks before she sail'd, 
Sail'd from this port. Would Enoch have 

the place ? 
And Enoch all at once assented to it. 
Rejoicing at that answer to his prayer. 

So now that shadow of mischance appear'd 
No graver than as when srme little cloud 
Cuts off the fiery highway of the sun, 
j^nd isles a light in the offing: yet the wife — 
When he was gone — the children — what to 

do? 
Then Enoch lay long-pondering on his 

plans ; 
To sell the boat — and yet he loved her 

well — 
How many a rough sea had he weather'd in 

her ! 
He knew her, as a horseman knows his 

horse — 
And yet to sell her — then with what she 

brought 
Buy goods and stores — set Annie forth m 

trade 
With all that seamen needed or their wives — 
So might she keep the house while he was 

gone 
Should he not trade himself out yonder? go 
This vovage more than once ? yea twice or 

thrice — 
As oft as needed — last, returning rich, 
IVcome the master of a larger craft. 
With fuller profits lead an easier life. 
Have all his pretty young ones educated. 
And pass his days in peace among his own. 



ENOCH arden: 



213 



Thus Enoch in liis heart determined all : 
Then moving homeward came on Annie pale, 
Nursing the sickly babe, her latest-born. 
Forward she started with a happy cry, 
And laid the feeble infant in his arms ; 
Whom Enoch took, and handled all his 

limbs. 
Appraised his weight, and fondled fatherlike. 
But had no heart to break his purposes 
To Annie, till the morrow, when he spoke. 

Then first since Enoch's golden ring had 
girt 
Her finger, Annie fought against his will : 
Yet not with brawling opposition she. 
But manifold entreaties, many a tear, 
Many a sad kiss by day by night renew'd 
(Sure that all evil would come out of it) 
Besought him, supplicating, if he cared 
For her or his dear children, not to go. 
He not for his own self caring but her. 
Her and her children, let her plead in vain ; 
So grieving held his will, and bore it thro'. 

For Enoch parted with his old sea-friend, 
Bought Annie goods and stores, and set his 

hand 
To fit their little streetward sitting-room 
With shelf and corner for the goods and stores. 
So all day long till Enoch's last at home. 
Shaking their pretty cabin, hammer and axe. 
Auger and saw, while Annie seem'd to hear 
Her own death-scaffold raising, shrill'd and 

rang. 
Till this was ended, and his careful hand, — 
The space was narrow, — having order'd all 
Almost as neat and close as Nature packs 
Her blossom or her seedling, paused ; and he, 
Who needs would work for Annie to the last. 
Ascending tired, heavily slept till morn. 

And Enoch faced this morning of farewell 
Brightly and boldly. All his Annie's feirs. 
Save as his Annie's, were a laughter to him. 
Yet Enoch as a brave God-fearing man 
Bow'd himself down, and in that mystery 
Where God-in-man is one with man-in-God, 
Pray'd for a blessing on his wife and babes 
Whatever came to him : and then he said, 
" Annie, this voyage by the grace of God 
Will bring fair weather yet to all of us. 
Keep a clean hearth and a clear fire for me. 
For I '11 be back, my girl, before you know 

it." 
Then lightly rocking baby's cradle, " and he. 
This pretty, puny, weakly little one, — 
Nay — for I love him all the better for it — ■ 
God bless him, he shall sit upon my knees 
And I will tell him tales of foreign parts, 
And make him merry when I come home 

again. 
Come Annie, come, cheer up before I go." 

Him running on thus hopefully she heard. 
And almost hoped herself; but when he turn'd 
The current of his talk to graver things 
In sailor fashion roughly sermonizing 
On providence and trust in Heaven, she 
heard, 



Heard and not heard him : as the village 

girl. 
Who sets her pitcher underneath the sprmg, 
Musing on him that used to fill it for her, 
Hears and not hears, and lets it overflow. 

At length she spoke, "O Enoch, you are 
wise ; 
And yet for all your wisdom well know I 
That I shall look upon your face no more." 

"Well then," said Enoch, "I shall look 

on yours 
Annie, the ship I sail in passes here 
(He named the day); get you a seaman's 

glass. 
Spy out my face, and laugh at all your fears." 

But when the last of those last moments 
came, 
"Annie, my girl, cheer up, be comforted, 
Look to the babes, and till I come again. 
Keep everything shipshape, for I must go. 
And fear no more for me; or if you fear 
Cast all your cares on God ; that anchor holds. 
Is He not yonder in those utteimost 
Parts of the morning? if I tlee to these 
Can I go from Him ? and the sea is His, 
The sea is His : He made it." 

Enoch rose, 
Cast his strong arms about his drooping wife, 
And kiss'd his wonder-stricken little ones; 
But for the third, the sickly one, who slept 
After a night of feverous wakefulness. 
When Annie would have raised him Enoch 

said, 
"Wake him not ; let him sleep ; how should 

the child 
Remember this?" and kiss'd him in his cot. 
But Annie from her baby's forehead dipt 
A tiny curl, and gave it : this he kept 
Thro' all his future ; but now hastily caught 
His bundle, waved his hand, and went his 

way. 

She when the day, that Enoch mention'd, 
came, 
liorrow'd a glass, but all in vain : perhaps 
She could not fix the glass to suit her eye ; 
Perhaps her eye was dim, hand tremulous ; 
She saw him not : and while he stood on deck 
Waving, the moment and the vessel past. 

Ev'n to the last dip of the vanishing sail 
She watch'd it, and departed weeping for 

him ; 
Then, tho' she mourn'd his absence as his 

grave. 
Set her sad will no less to chime with his. 
But throve not in her trade, not being bred 
To barter, nor compensating the want 
By shrewdness, neither capable of lies, 
Nor asking overmuch and taking less, 
And still foreboding " What would Enoch 

say ? " 
For more than once, in daj's of difficulty 
And pressure, had she sold her v/ares ftr less 



314 



ENuCH ARDEN. 



Q'han whnt she gave in buying what she sold : 
Shefaii'd and sadden'd knowing it ; and tlius, 
Expectant of that news which never came, 
Gain'd for her own a scanty sustenance, 
And lived a life of silent melancholy. 

Now the third child was sickly born and 
grew 
Yet sicklier, tho' the mother cared for it 
With all a mother's care : nevertheless, 
Whether her business often calTd her from it. 
Or thro' the want of what it needed most. 
Or means to pay the voice who best cou d tell 
What most it needed — howsoe'er it was. 
After a lingering, — ere she was aware, — 
Like the caged bird escaping suddenly. 
The little innocent soul flitted away. 

In that same week when Annie buried it, 
Philip's true lieart, which hunger'd lor her 

peace 
(Since Enoch left he had not look'd upon 

her). 
Smote him, as having kept aloof so long. 
" Surely," said Philip, " I may see her now, 
May be some little comfort " ; therefore went, 
Past thro' the solitaiy room in front, 
Paused for a moment at an inner door. 
Then struck it thrice, and, no one opening, 
Enter'd ; but Annie, seated with her grief. 
Fresh from the burial of her little one. 
Cared not to look on any human face. 
But turn'd her own toward the wall and 

wept. 
Then Philip standing up said falteringly, 
"Annie, I came to ask a favor of you." 

He spoke ; the passion in her moan'd re- 
ply. 
" Favor from one so sad and so forlorn 
As I am ! " half abash'd him ; yet imask'd. 
His bashfulness and tenderness at war. 
He sets himself beside her, saying to her : 

" I came to speak to you of what he 

wish'd, 
Enoch, your husband : I have ever said 
You chose the best among us — a strong 

man : 
For where he fixt his heart he set his hand 
To do the thing he will'd, and bore it thro'. 
And wherefore did he go this weary way. 
And leave you lonely ? not to see the world — 
For pleasure ? — nay, but for the where- 

witl-al 
To give his babes a better bringing-up 
Than his had been, or yours : that was his 

wish. 
And if he come again, vext will he be 
To find the precious morning hours were lo«t. 
And it would vex him even in his grave. 
If he could know his babes were running 

wild 
Like colts about the waste. So, Annie, 

now — 
Have we not known eacli other all our lives? 
I do beseech you by the love you bear 
Uim and his children not to say rae nay — 



For, if you will, when Enoch comes again 
Why then he shall repay me — if you will, 
Annie — for I am rich and well-to-do. 
Now let me put the boy and girl to schoo. : 
This is the favor that I came to ask." 

Then Annie with her brows against the 

wall 
Answer'd, " I cannot look you in the face ; 
1 seem so foolish and so broken down ; 
When you came in my sorrow broke me 

down ; 
And now I think your kindness breaks me 

down ; 
F>ut Enoch lives ; that is borne in on me ; 
He will repay you : money can be repaid ; 
Not kindness such as yours." 

And Philip ask'd 
" Then you will let nie, Annie .' " 

There she tuni'd, 
She rose, and fixt her swimming eyes upon 

him. 
And dwelt a moment on his kindly fare, 
Then calling down a blefsing on his head 
Caught at his hand and wrung it passion- 
ately. 
And past into the little garth bej'ond. 
So lifted up in spirit he moved away. 

Then Philip put the boy and girl to school, 
And bought them needful books, and every 

way, 
Like one who does his duty by his own. 
Made himself theirs ; and tho' for Ai.nie's 

sake. 
Fearing the lazy gossip of the port. 
He oft denied his heart his dearest wish, 
And seldcm crost her threshold, yet he sent 
Gifts by the children, garden-heibs and fruit, 
The late and early roses from his wall. 
Or conies from the down, and now and then. 
With some pretext of fineness in the meal 
To save the offence of charitable, flour 
From his tall mill that whistled on the waste. 

But Philip did not fathom Annie's PMnd: 
Scarce could the woman when he came upon 

her. 
Out of full heart and boundless gratitide 
Light on a broken word to thank liim with. 
But Philip was her children's allin-all ; 
From distant comers of the street they ran 
To greet his hearty welcome heartily ; 
Lords of his house and of his mill we: e they ; 
Worried his passive ear with petty wioiigs 
Or pleasures, hung upon him, pi; y'd with 

him 
And call'd him Father Philip. Philip gain'd 
As Enoch lost ; for Enoch seem'd to them 
Uncertain as a vision or a dream. 
Faint as a figure seen in early dawn 
Down at the far end of an avenue. 
Going ye know not where ; and so ten years. 
Since Enoch left his hearth and native land. 
Fled forward, and no news of Enoch came. 




"Then Philip put the boy and girl to school, 
And bought them needful books." 



ENOCH ABDEN. 



2IS 



It chanced one evening Annie's children 
long'd 
To go with others, nutting to the wood, 
And Annie would go with iheni ; then they 

begg'd 
For Father Philip (as they cnl'.'d him) too : 
Him, like the working bee in blossom-dust, 
Blanch'd with his mill, they found ; and say- 
\ ing to him, 

\ " Come with us Father Philip,"' he denied : 

! But when the children pluck'd at him to go, 

■ He laugh'd, and yielded readily to their wi;-h, 

For was not Annie with them? and they went. 

But after scaling half the weary down, 
Just where the prone edge of the wood began 
To feather toward the hollow, all her force 
Fail'd her ; and sighing " Let me rest " she 

said : 
So Philip rested witli her well-content ; 
While all the younger ones with jubilant 

cries 
Broke from their elders, and tumultuously 
Down thro' the whitening hazels made a 

plunge 
To the bottom, and dispersed, and bent or 

broke 
The lithe reluctant boughs to tear away 
Their tawny clusters, crying to each other 
And calling, here and there, about the wood. 

But Philip sitting at her side forgot 
I Her presence, and remember'd one dark hour 
Here in this wood, when like a wounded life 
He crept into the shadow : at last he said 
Lifting his honest forehead, " Listen, Annie, 
How merry they are down yonder in the 

wood." 
" Tired, Annie ? " for she did not speak a 

word. 
"Tired?" but her face had fall'n upon her 

hands ; 
At which, as with a kind of anger in him, 
"The ship was lost," he .said, " the ship was 

lost ! 
No more ofthat ! why should you kill yourself 
And make them orphans quite? " And Annie 

said, 
" I thought not of it : but — I knownot why — 
Their voices make me feel so solitary." 

Then Philip coming somewhat closer spoke. 
" Annie, there is a thing upon my mind. 
And it has been upon my mind so long, 
That tho' I know not when it first came there, 
1 know that it will out at last. O Annie, 
It is beyond all hope, against all chance. 
That he who left you ten long years ago 
Should still be living ; well then — let me 

speak : 

I grieve to see you poor and wanting help : 
I cannot help you as I wish to do 
Unless — they say that women are so quick — 
Perhaps you know what I would have you 

know — 

I wish you for my wife. I fain would prove 
A father to your children : I do think 
They love me as a father : I am sure 



That I love them as if they were mine own ; 
And I believe, if you were fast my wife, 
That after all these sad uncertain yjars, 
We might be still as happy as God grants 
To any of His creatures. Think upon it : 
For I am well-to-do — no kin, no care, 
No burthen, save my care for you and yours ; 
And we have known each other all our lives, 
And I have loved you longer than you know." 

Then answer'd Annie ; tenderly she spoke: 
" You have been as God's good angel in our 

house. 
God bless you for it, God reward you for it, 
Philip, with something happier than myself. 
Can one love twice ? can you be ever loved 
As Enoch was ? what is it that you ask ? " 
" I am c<mtent," he answer'd, "to be loved 
A little after Enoch." " O, she cried, 
Scared as it were, " dear Philip, wait a while : 
If Enoch comes — but Enoch will not come — 
Yet wait a year, a year is not so long : 
Surely I shall be wiser in a year : 

wait a little ! " Philip sadly said, 
"Annie, as I have waited all my life 

1 well may wait a little." " Nay," she cried, 
" I am bound: you have my promise — in a 

year : 
Will yo\i not bide your year as I bide mine ? " 
And Philip answer'd, " I will bide my year." 

Here both were mute, till Philipglanclng up 
Beheld the dead flame of the fallen day 
Pass from the Danish barrow overhead ; 
Then fearing night and chill for Annie rose, 
And sent his voice beneath him thro' the 

wood. 
Up came the children laden with their spoil ; 
Then all descended to the port, and there 
At Annie's door he paused and gave his 

hand. 
Saying gently, "Annie, when I spoke to you. 
That was your hour of weakness. I was 

wrong. 
I am always bound to you, but you are free." 
Then Annie weeping answer'd, " I am 

bound." 

She spoke ; and in one moment as it were, 
While yetshe went about her household ways, 
Ev'n as she dwelt upon his latest words, 
That he had loved her longer than she knew. 
That autumn into autumn flash'd again. 
And there he stood once more before her face, 
Claiming her promise. " Is it a year? " she 

ask'd. 
"Yes, if the nuts," he said, "be ripe again : 
Come out and see." But she — she put 

him off— 
So much to look to — such a change — a 

month — 
Give her a month — she knew that she was 

bound — 
A month — no more. Then Philip witli his 

eyes 
Full ofthat lifelong hunger, and his voice 
Shaking a little like a drunkard's hand. 
" Take your own time, Annie, take your own 

time." 



2l6 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



And Annie could have wept for pity of him ; 
And yet slie held him on delayingly 
With many a scarce-believable excuse, 
Trying his truth and his long sufferance. 
Till half-another year had slipt away. 

By this the lazy gossips of the port. 
Abhorrent of a calculation crost. 
Began to chafe as at a personal wrong. 
Some thought that Philip did but trifle with 

her ; 
Some that she but held off to draw him on ; 
And others laugh'd at her and Philip too, 
As simple folk that knew not their own 

minds ; 
And one, in whom all evil fancies clung 
Like serpent eggs together, laughingly 
Would hint at worse in either. Her own son 
Was silent, tho' he often Inok'd his wish ; 
But evermore the daughter prest upon her 
To wed the man so dear to all of them 
And lift the household out of poverty ; 
And Philip's rosy face contracting frew 
Careworn and wan ; and all these things fell 

on her 
Sharp as reproach. 

At last one night it chanced 
That Annie could not sleep, but earnestiV 
Pray'd for a sign " my Enoch, is he gone ? " 
Then compass'd round by the blind wall of 

night 
Brook'd not the expectant terror of her heart. 
Started from bed, and struck herself a light, 
Then desperately seized the holy Book, 
Suddenly set it wide to find a sign. 
Suddenly put her finger on the text, 
" Under a palratree." That was nothing to 

her : 
No meaning there : she closed the book and 

slept': 
When lo ! her Enoch sitting on a height. 
Under a )ialnitree, over him the Sun : 
" He is gone," she thought, " he is happy, 

he is singing 
Hosanna in the highest : yonder shines 
The Sun of Righteousness, and these be 

palms 
Whereof the happy people strowing cried 
' Hosanna in the highest ! ' " Here she woke. 
Resolved, sent for him and said wildly to him, 
" There is no reason why we should not wed. " 
" Then for God's sake," lie answer'd, " both 

our sakes. 
So you will wed me, let it be at once." 

So these were wed and merrily rang the 
_ bells. 
Merrily rang the bells and they were wed. 
But never merrily beat Annie's heart 
A footstep seem'd to fall beside her path. 
She knew not whence ; a whisper on her ear. 
She knew not what ; nor loved she to be left 
Alone at home, nor ventured out alone. 
What ail'd her then, that ere she enter'd, 

often 
Her hand dwelt lingeringly on the latch, 
Fearing to enter : Philip thought he knew : 



Such doubts and fears were common to her 

state. 
Being with child : but when her child was 

born. 
Then her new child was as herself renew-'d. 
Then the new mother came about her heart, 
Then her good Philip was her all-in-all. 
And that mysterious instinct wholly died. 

And where was Enoch ? Prosperously 

sail'd 
The ship " Good Fortune," tho' at setting 

forth 
The Biscay, roughly ridging eastward, shook 
And almost overwhelm 'd her, yet unvext 
She slipt across the summer of the world, ,, 
Then after a long tumble about the Cape jj 
And frequent interchange of foul and fair, I 
She passing thro' the summer world again, g 
The breath of Heaven came continually 5 
And sent her sweetly by the golden isles, i 
Till silent in her oriental haven. • 

There Enoch traded for himself, and bought 
Quaint monsters for the market of those 

times, 
A gilded dragon, also, for the babes. 

Less lucky her home-voyage : at first in- 
deed 
Thro' many a fair sea-circle, day by day. 
Scarce-rocking, her full busted figure head 
Stared o'er the ripple feathering from her 

bows : 
Then follow'd calms, and then winds variable, 
Then baffling, a long course of them ; and 

last 
Storm, such as drove her under moonless 

heavens 
Till hard upon the cry of " breakers " came 
The crash of ruin, and the loss of all 
But Enoch and two others. Half the night, 
r.uoy'd upon floating tackle and broken spars, 
1 hese drifted, stranding on an isle at morn 
Rich, but the loneliest in a lonely sea. 

No want was there of human sustenance, 
Soft fruitage, mighty nuts, and nourishing 

roots ; 
Ncr save for pity was it hard to take 
The helpless life so wild that it was tame. 
There in a seaward-gazing mountain-gorge 
They built, and thatch'd with leaves of palm, 

a hut. 
Half hut, half native cavern. So th.e three, 
Set in this Eden of all plcnteonsncss. 
Dwelt with eternal summer, ill-content. 

For one, the youngest, hardly more than 

boy. 
Hurt in that night of sudden ruin and yrcck, ,j 
Lay lingering out a three-years' death-in-!ife. > 
They could "not leave him. After he was Ij 

gone. 
The two remaining found a fallen stem ; 
And Enoch's comrade, careless of himiclf, 
Fire-hollowing this in Indian fashion, fell 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



217 



Sun-stricken, and that other lived alone. | 

In those two deaths he read God's warning 
"wait." 

The mountain wooded to the peak, the 

lawns 
And winding glades high up like ways to 

Heaven, 
The slender coco's drooping crown of plumes, 
The lightning flash of insect and of bird, 
The lustre of the long convolvuluses 
That coil'd around the stately stems, and ran 
Ev'n to the limit of the land, the glows 
And glories of the broad belt of the world, 
All these he saw ; but what he fain had seen 
He could not see, the kindly human face. 
Nor ever hear a kindly voice, but heard 
The myriad shriek of wheeling ocean-fowl. 
The league-long roller thundering on the 

reef. 
The moving whisper of huge trees that 

branch'd 
And blossom'd in the zenith, or the sweep 
Of some precipitous rivulet to the wave, 
As down the shore he ranged, or all day long 
Sat often in the seaward-gazing gorge, 
A shipvvreck'd sailor, waiting for a sail : 
No sail from day to day, but every day 
The sunrise broken into scarlet shafts 
Among the palms and ferns and pr cipices ; 
The blaze upon the waters to the eist ; 
The blaze upon his island overhead ; 
The blaze upon the waters to the west ; 
Then the great stars that globed themselves 

in Heaven, 
The hoUower-bellowing ocean, and again , 
The scarlet shafts of sunrise — but no sail. 

There often as he watch'd or seem'd to 

watch. 
So still, the golden lizard on him paused. 
A phantom made of many phantoms moved 
Before him haunting him, or he himself 
Moved haunting people, things and places, 

known 
Far in a darker isle beyond the line ; 
The babes, their babble, Annie, the small 

house, 
The cinnbing street, the mill, the leafy lanes, 
The peacockyewtree and the lonely Hall, 
The horse he drove, the boat he sold, the 

chill 
November dawms and dewy-glooming downs. 
The gentle shower, the smell of dying leaves, 
And the low rnoan of leaden-color'd seas. 

Once likewise, in the ringing of his ears, 
Tho' faintly, merrily — far and far away — 
He heard the pealing of his parish bells ; 
Then, tho' he knew not wherefore, started 

up 
Shuddering, and when the beauteous hateful 

isle 
Return'd upon him, had not his poor heart 
.Spoken with That, which being everywhere 
Lets none, who speaks with Him, seem all 

alone, 
Surely the man had died of solitude. 



Thus over Enoch's early-silvering head 
The sunny and rainy seasons came ai.d went 
Year after year. His hopes to see his own, 
And pace the sacred old familiar fields, 
Not yet had perish'd, when his lonely doom 
Came suddenly to an end. Another ship 
(She wanted water) blown by baffling winds 
Like the Good Fortune, from her destined 

course, 
Stay'd by this isle, not knowing where sha 

. '^y : 

For since the mate had seen at early dawn 
Across a break on the mist-wreatlien islj 
The silent water slipping from the hills. 
They sent a crew that landing burst away 
hi search of stream or fount, and fiU'd ths 

shores 
With clamor. Downward from his mountain 

gorge 
.Stept the long-hair'd long-bearded solitary. 
Brown, looking hardly human, strangely clad, 
Muttering and mumbling, idiotlike it seem'd, 
With inarticulate rage, and making signs 
They knew not what : and yet he led the way 
To where the rivulets of sweet water ran ; 
And ever as he mingled with the crew, 
And heard them talking, his long-bounden 

tongue 
Was loosen'd, till he made them understand ; 
Whom, when their casks were fill'd they tool! 

aboard : 
And there the tale he utter'd brokenly, 
.Scarce credited at first but more and more. 
Amazed and melted all who listen'd to it : 
And clothes they gave hijn and free passage 

home : 
But oft he work'd among the rest and shook 
His isolation from him. None of these 
Came from liis county, or could answer him, 
If question'd, aught of what he cared to 

know. 
And dull the voyage was with long delays. 
The vessel scarce sea-worthy ; but evermore 
His fancy fled before the lazy wind 
Returning, till beneath a clouded moon 
He like a lover down thro' all his blood 
Drew in the dewy meadowy morning breath 
Of England, blown across her ghostly wall : 
And that same morning officers and men 
Levied a kindly tax upon themselves. 
Pitying the lonely man, and gave him it : 
Then moving up the coast they landed him, 
Ev'n in that harbor whence he sail'd before. 

There E»och spoke no word to any one. 
But homeward, — home, — what home ? had 

he a home ? 
His home he walk'd. Bright was that after- 
noon, 
Sunny but chill ; till drawn thro' either 

chasm, 
Where either haven open'd on the deeps, 
RoU'd a sea-haze and whelra'd the world in 

gray : 
Cut off the length of highway on before. 
And left but narrow breadth to left and right 
Of wither'd holt or tilth or pasturage. 
On the nigh-naked tree the Rubin piped 



3l8 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



Disconsolate, and tliro' the dripping haze 
The dead weight of the dead leaf bore it 

down : 
Thicker the drizzle grew, deeper the gloom ; 
Last, as it seem'd, a great mist-blotted light 
Flared on him, and he came upon the place. 

Then down the long street having slowly 

stolen. 
His heart foreshadowing all calamity, 
His eyes upon the stones, he reach'd tlie 

home 
Where Annie lived and loved him, and his 

babes 
In those far-off seven happy years were bom ; 
But finding neither light nor murmur there 
(A bill of sale gleam'd thro' the drizzle) crept 
Still downward thinking " dead or dead to 

me ! " 

Down to the pool and narrow wharf he 

went. 
Seeking a tavern which of old he knew, 
A front of timber-crost antiquity, 
So propt, worm-eaten, ruinously old. 
He thought it must have gone ; but he was 

gone 
Who kept it : and his widow, Miriam Lane, 
With daily-dwindling profits held the house ; 
A haunt of brawling seamen once, but now 
Stiller with yet a bed for wandering men. 
There Enoch rested silent many days. 

But Miriam Lane was good and garrulous. 
Nor let him be, but often breaking in. 
Told him, with other annals of the port. 
Not knowing — Enoch was so brown, so 

bow'd. 
So broken — all the story of his house. 
His baby's death, her growing poverty. 
How Philip put her little ones to school. 
And kept them in it, his long wooing her. 
Her slow consent, and marriage, and the 

birth 
Of Philip's child : and o'er his countenance 
No shadow past, nor motion ; any one. 
Regarding, well had deem'd he felt the tale 
Less than the teller : only when she closed, 
" Enoch, poor man, was cast away and lost," 
He shal^ing his gray head pathetically, 
Repeated muttering " Cast away and lost " ; 
Again in deeper inward whispers " Lost ! " 

But Enoch yearn'd to see her face again ; 
" If I might look on her sweet face again 
And know that she is happy." So the 

thought 
Haunted and harass'd him, and drove him 

forth 
At evening when the dull November day 
Was groumg duller twilight, to tlie liill. 
There he sat down gazing on all below : 
There did a thousand memories roll upon 

him, 
Unspeakable for sadness. By and by 
The ruddy square of comfortable light. 
Far-blazing from the rear of Philip's house, 
AUured him, as the beacon bla^e allures 



The bird of passa";e, till he madly strikes 
Against it, and b^ats out his weary life. 

For Philip's dwelling fronted on the street. 
The latest house to landward ; but behir.d. 
With one small gate that open'd on the waste, 
Flourish'd a little garden square and wall'd; 
And in it throve an ancient evergreen, 
A yevvtree, and all round it ran a walk 
Of shingle, and a walk divided it : 
But Enoch shunn'd the middle walk and 

stole 
Up by the wall, behind the yew ; and thence 
That which he better might have shunn'd, if 

griefs 
Like his have worse or better, Enoch saw. 

For cups and silver on the bumish'd board 
Sparkled and shone ; so genial was the 

hearth ; 
And on the right hand of the hearth he saw 
Philip, the slighted suitor of old times, 
Stout, rosy, with his babe across his knees; 
And o'er her second father stoopt a girl, 
A later but a loftier Annie Lee, 
Fair-hair'd and tall, and from her lifted hand 
Dangled a length of ribbon .nnd a ring 
To tempt the babe, who rear'd his creasy 

arms. 
Caught at and ever miss'dit, and theylaugh'd: 
And on the left hand of the hearth he ."^aw 
The mother glancing often toward her babe. 
But turning now and then to speak with him, 
Her .son, who stood before her tall and strong. 
And saying that which pleased him, for he 

smiled. 

Now when the dead man come to life be- 
held 
His wife his wife no more, and saw the babe 
Hers, yet not his, upon the father's knee. 
And all the warmth, the peace, the happi- 
ness. 
And his own children tall and beautiful. 
And him, that other, reirning in his place, 
Lord of his rights and of his children's love, — 
Then he, tho' Miriam Lane had told him all, 
Because things seen are mightier than things 

heard, 
Stagger'd and shook, holding the branch, 

and fear'd 
To send abroad a shrill and terrible cry. 
Which in one moment, like the blast of doom, 
Would shatter all the happiness of the hearth. 

He therefore turning softly like a thief. 
Lest the harsh shingle should grate underfoot, 
And feeling all along the garden-wall. 
Lest he should swoon and tumble and be 

found. 
Crept to the gate, and open'd it, and closed. 
As lightly as a sick man's chamber-door. 
Behind him, and came out upon the waste. 

And there he would have knelt, but tha'j | 
his knees 
Were feeble, so that falling prone he dug 
His fingers into the wet earth, and pray'd. 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



319 



" Too hard to bear ! vvliy did they take me 
thence ? 

God Ahnighty, blessed Saviour, Thou 
That didst uphold me on my lonely isle, 
Uphold me, Father, in my loneliness 

A little longer ! aid me, give me strength 
Not to tell her, never to let her know. 
Help me not to break in upon her peace. 
My children too ! must I not speak to these? 
They know me not. I should betray myself. 
Never : no father's kiss for me, — the girl 
So like her mother, and the boy, my sou." 

There speech and thought and nature faii'd 

a little. 
And he lay trauced r but when he rose and 

paced 
Back toward his solitary homo again, 
All down the narrow street he went 
Beating it in upon his weary brain. 
As tho' it were the burthen of a song, 
" Not to tell her, never to let her know." 

He was not all unhappy. His resolve 
Upbore him, and firm faith, and evermore 
Prayer from a living source within the will, 
And beating up thro' all the bitter world. 
Like fountains of sweet vv'aier in the sea. 
Kept him a living soul. " This miller's wife," 
He said to Miriam, " that you told me of, 
Has she no fear that her first husband lives ? " 
" Ay, ay, poor soul," said Miriam, " fear 

enow ! 
If you could tell her you had seen him dead. 
Why, that would be her comfort " : and he 

thought, 
" After the Lord has call'd me she sh.all know, 

1 wait His time," and Enoch set himself. 
Scorning an alms, to work whereby to live. 
Almost to all things could he turn his hand.- 
Cooper he was and carpenter, and wrought 
To make the boatmen fishing-nets, or help'd 
At lading and unlading the tall barks, 
That brought the stinted commerce of those 

days : 
Thus earn'd a scanty living for himself: 
Yet since he did but labor for himself, 
Work without hope, there was not life in it 
' Whereby the man could live ; and as the year 
Roll'd itself round again to meet the day 
Wlieu Enoch had return'd, a languor came 
Upon him, gentle sickness, gradually 
Weakening the man, till he could do no more. 
But kept the house, his chair, and last his 

bed. 
And Enoch bore his weakness cheerfully. 
For sure no gladlier does the stranded wreck 
See thro' the gray skirts of a lifting squall 
Tiie boat that bears the hope of life apjiroach 
To save the life despair'd of, than he saw 
Death dawning on him, and the close of all. 

For thro' that dawning gleam'd a kindlier 
hope 
On Enoch thinking, "After I am gone. 
Then may she learn I loved her to the las*." 
He called aloud for Miriara Lane aud saic<, 



" Woman, I have a secret — only swear, 
Before I tell you — swear upon the book 
Not to reveal it, till you see me dead." 
"Dead," clamor'd the good woman, "hear 

him talk ! 
I warrant, man, that we shall bring you 

round." 
"Swear," added Enoch sternly, "on the 

book." 
And on the book, half-frighted, Miriam swore. 
Then Enoch rolling his gray eyes upon her, 
" Did you know Enoch Arden of this town ? " 
" Know him ? " she said, " 1 knew him C'.r 

away. 
Ay, ay, I mind him coming down the street ; 
Held his head high, and cared for no man, 

he." 
Slowly and sadly Enoch answer'd her ; 
" His head is low, and no man cares for him. 
I think 1 have not three days more to live ; 
I am the man." At which the woman gave 
A half-incredulous, half-hysterical cry. 
" You Arden, you ! nay, — sure he was a foot 
Higher than you be." Enoch said again, 
" My God has bow'd me down to what f am ; 
My grief and solitude have broken me ; 
Nevertheless, know you that I am he 
Who married — but that name lias twice been 

changed — 
I married her who married Philip Ray. 
Sit, listen." Then he told her of his voyage. 
His wreck, his lonely life, his coming back. 
His gazing in on Annie, his resolve. 
And how he kept it. As the woman heard. 
Fast flovv'd the current of her easy tears. 
While in her tieart she yearn'd incessantly 
To rush abroad all round the little haven, 
Proclaiming Enoch Arden and his woes ; 
But awed and promise-bounden she forbore, 
Saying only, " See your bairns before you go 1 
Eh, let me fetch 'm, Arden," and arose 
Eager to bring them down, for Enoch hung 
A moment on her words, but then replied : 

" Woman, disturb me not now ^t the last. 
But let me hold my purpose till I die. 
Sit down again ; mark me and understand. 
While I have power to speak. I charge you 

now. 
When you shall see her, tell her that I died 
Blessing her, praying for her, loving her ; 
Save for the bar between us, loving her 
As when she laid her head beside my ovra. 
And tell my daughter Annie, whom I saw 
So like her mother, that my latest breath 
Was spent in blessing her and praying for 

her. 
And tell my son that I died blessing him. 
And say to Philip that I blest him too ; 
He never meant us anything but good. 
But if my children care to see me dead. 
Who hardly knew me living, let them come, 
I am their father; but she must not come, 
For my dead face would vex her after-life. 
And now there is but one of all my blood. 
Who will embrace me in the world-to-be : 
This hair is his : she cut it off and gave it, 
Aud 1 have borne it with me all tliese years. 



AYLMER'S FIELD. 



And thought to bear it with me to my grave ; 
But no\y my mind is changed, for I shall see 

him, 
My babe in bliss : wherefore when I am gone. 
Take, give her this, for it may comfort her ; 
It will moreover be a token to her, 
That I am he." 

He ceased ; and Miriam Lane 
Made such a voluble answer promising all, 
That once again he roll'd his eyes upon her 
Repeating all he wish'd, and once again 
She promised. 



Then the third night after this, 
While Enoch slumber'd motionless and pale, 
And Miriam watch'd and dozed at intervals 
'I'here came so loud a calling of the sea, 
That all the houses in the haven rang. 
He woke, he rose, bespread his arms abroad 
Crynig with a loud voice " A sail ! a sail ! 
I am saved " ; and so fell back and spoke no 
more. 

So past the strong heroic soul away. 
And when they buried him the little port 
Had seldom seen a costlier funeral. 



ADDITIONAL POEMS. 



AYLMER'S FIELD. 



Dust are our frames; and, gilded dust, 
our pride 
Looks only for a moment whole and sound; 
Like that long-buried body of the king, 
P'ound lying with bis urns and ornaments, 
Which at a touch of light, an air of heaven, 
Slipt into ashes and was found no more. 

Here is a story which in rougher shape 
Came from a grizzled cripple, whom I saw 
Sunning himself in a waste field alone — 
Old, and a mine of memories — who had 

served. 
Long since, a bygone Rector of the place, 
And been himself a part of what he told. 

Sir Aylmer Avlmer, that almighty man. 
The county God — in whose capacious hall. 
Hung with a hundred shields, the family tree 
Sprang from the midriff of a prostrate king — 
Whose blazing wyvern weathercock'd the 

spire. 
Stood from his walls and wing'd his entry- 
gates 
And swang besides on many a wincfy sign — 
Whose eyes from under a pyramidal head 
Saw from his windows nothing save his own — 
What lovelier of his own had he than her. 
His only child, his Edith, whom he loved 
As heiress and not heir regretfully ? 
But " he that marries her mairies her name '* 
This fiat somewhat soothedhlmself and wife, 
His wife a faded beauty of the Baths, 
Insipid as the Queen upon a card ; 
Her all of thought and bearing hardly more 
Than his own shadow in a sickly sun. 

A land of hops and poppy-mingled corn. 
Little about it stirring save a brook I 
A sleepy land where under the same wheel 
Tbe same old rut would deepea year by year ; 



Where almost all the village had one name ; 
Where Aylmer follow'd Aylmer at the Hall 
And Averill Averill at the Rectory 
Thrice over ; so that Rectory and Hall, 
Bound in an immemorial intimacy. 
Were open to each other ; tho' to dream 
That Love could bind them closer well had 

made 
The hoar hair of the Baronet bristle up 
With horror, worse than had he heard his 

priest 
Preach an inverted scripture, sons of men 
Daughters of God ; so sleepy was the land 

And might not Averill, had he will'd it so* 
Somewhere beneath his own low range oi 

roofs. 
Have also set his many-shielded tree ? 
There was an Aylmer-Averill mairiage once. 
When the red rose was redder than itself. 
And York's white rose as red as Lanca.ster's, 
With wounded peace which each had prick'd 

to death. 
" Not proven," Averill said, or laughingly, 
" Some other race of Averills" — prov'n or no. 
What cared he? what, if other or the same.' 
He lean'd not on his fathers but himself. 
But Leolin, his brother, living oft 
With Averill, and a year or two before 
Call'd lo the bar, but ever cnllM away 
By one low voice to one dear neighborhood. 
Would often, in his walks with Edith, claim 
A distant kinship to the gracious blood 
That shook the heart of Edith hearing him. 

Sanguine he was : a but less vivid hue 
Tlian of that islet in the chestnut bloom 
Flamed in liis cheek ; and eager eyes, that 

still 
Took joyful note of all things joyful, beara'd. 
Beneath a manelfke mass of rolling pold. 
Their best and brightest, when they dwe^t on 

hers, 
Edith, vyhose pensive beauty, perfect elce, 
But subject to tlie season or tlie muod. 




Aylmer ]^all. 



AVLMER'S FIELD. 



Shone like a mystic star between the less 
And greater glory varying to and fro, 
^\'e know not wherefore ; bounteously made, 
Anrl yet so finely, that a troublous touch 
1 liinn'd, or would seem to thin her in a day, 
A joyous to dilate, as toward the light. 
Anl these had been together from the first. 
I lolin's first nurse was, five years after, hers: 
Si I much the boy foreran ; but when his date 
Doubled her own, for want of playmates, he 
I Since Averill was a decade and a half 
I lis elder, and their parents underground) 
Had tost his ball and flown his kite, and 

roU'd 
His hoop to pleasure Edith, with her dipt 
Against the rush of the air in the prone 

swing, 
M.ide blossom-ball or daisy chain, arranged 
Her garden, sow'd her name and kept it 

green 
In living letters, told her fairy-tales, 
Show'd her the fairy footings on the grass, 
The little dells of cowslip, fairy palms. 
The petty marestail forest, fairy pines. 
Or from the tiny pitted target blew 
What look'd a flight of fairy arrows aim'd 
All at one mark, all hitting : make-believes 
For Edith and himself: or else he forged, 
I'lut that was later, boyish histories 
( If battle, bold adventure, dungeon, wreck. 
Flights, terrors, sudden rescues, and true love 
Crown'd after trial ; sketches rude and faint, 
ISut where a passion yet unborn perhaps 
Lay hidden as the music of the moon 
Sleeps in the plain eggs of the nightingale. 
And thus together, save forcollege-times 
( >r Temple-eaten terms, a couple, fair 
As ever painter painted, poet sang. 
Or Heav'n in lavish bounty moulded, grew. 
And more and more, the maiden woman- 
grown, 
He wasted hours with Averill ; there, when 

first 
The tented winter-field was broken up 
Into that phalanx of the summer spears 
That soon should wear the garland ; there 

again 
When burr and bine were gather'd : lastly 

there 
At Christmas ; ever welcome at the Hall, 
On whose dull sameness his full tide of 

youth 
Broke with a phosphorescence cheering even 
My lady ; and the Baronet yet had laid 
No bar between them : dull and seif-in 

volved, 
Tall and erect, but bending from his heiglit 
With half-allowing smiles for all the world. 
And mighty courteous in the main — his 

pride 
Lay deeper than 1o wear it as his r ng — 
He, like an Aylmer in his Aylmerism, 
Would care no more for Leolin's walking 

w h her 
Than for his old Newfoundland's, when they 

ran 
To loose him at the stables, for he rose 
rvrofooted at the limit of his chain, 



Roaring to make a third ; and how should 
Love, 

Whom the cross-lightnings of four chance- 
met eyes 

Flash into fiery life from nothing, follow 

Such dear familiarities of dawn ? 

Seldom, but when he does. Master of all. 

So these young hearts not knowing that 

they loved, 
Not she at least, nor conscious of a bar 
Between them, nor by plight or broken ring 
Bound, but an immemorial intimacy, 
Wander'd at will, but oft accompanied 
By Averill : his, a brother's love, that hung 
With wings of brooding shelter o'er her 

peace. 
Might have been other, save for Leolin's — 
Who knows ? but so they wander'd, hour by 

hour 
Gather'd the blossom that rebloom'd, and 

drank 
The magic cup that fill'd itself anew. 

A whisper half reveal'd her to herself. 
For out beyond her lodges, where the brook 
Vocal, with here and there a silence, ran 
By sallowy rims, arose the laborers' homes, 
A frequent haunt of Edith, on low knebs 
That dimpling died into each other, huts 
At random scatter'd, each a nest in bloom. 
Her art, her hand, her counsel all had wrought 
About them : here was one that, summer- 

blanch'd. 
Was parcel-bearded with the traveller's-joy 
In Autumn, parcel ivy-clad ; and here 
The warm blue breathings of a hidden hearth 
Broke from a bovver of vine and honeysuckle : 
One look'd all rosetree, and another wore 
A close-set robe of jasmine sown with stars : 
This had a rosy sea of gillyflowers 
About it : this a milky way on earth. 
Like visions in the Northern dreamer's 

heavens, 
A lily-avenue climbing to the doors ; 
One, almost to the martin-haunted eaves 
A summer burial deep in hollyhocks ; 
Each, its own charm ; and Edith's every- 
where ; 
And Edith ever visitant with him. 
He but less loved than Edith, of her poor : 
For she — so lowly-lovely and so loving. 
Queenly responsive when the loyal hand 
Rose from the clay it work'd in as she past. 
Not sowing hedgerow texts and passing by, 
Nor dealing goodly counsel from a height 
That makes the lowest hate it, but a voice 
Of comfort and an open hand of help, 
A splendid presence flattering the poor roofs 
Revered as theirs, but kindlier than them- 
selves 
To ailing wife or wailing infancy 
Or old bedridden palsy, — was adored ; 
He, loved for her and for himself A grasp 
Having the warmth and muscle of the heart, 
A childly way with children, and a laugh 
Kinging like proven golden coinage true. 
Were no false passport to tliat easy realin. 



A YLMER'S FIELD. 



Where once with Leolin at her side the girl. 
Nursing a child, and turning to the warmth 
The tender pink five-beaded baby-soles, 
Heard the good mother softly whi,;per "l!!ess, 
God bless 'em ; marriages are made in 
Heaven." 

A flash of semi-jealousy clear'd it to her. 
My Lady's Indian kinsman unannounced 
With half a score of swarthy faces came. 
His own, tho' keen and bfild and soldierly, 
Sear'd by the close ecliptic, was not fair ; 
Fairer his talk, a tongue that ruled the hour, 
Tho' seeming boastful : so when first he 

dash'd 
Into the chronicle of a deedful day. 
Sir Ayhner half forgot his lazy smile 
Of patron " Good ! my lady's kinsman ! 

good ! " 
My lady with her fingers interlock'd, 
And rotatory thumbs on silken knees, 
Call'd all her vital spirits into each ear 
To listen : unawares they flitted off, 
Busying themselves about the flovverage 
'i hat stood from out a stitT brocade in which, 
The meteor of a splendid season, she, 
Once with this kinsman, ah so long ago, 
Stept thro' the stately minuet of those days : 
But Edith's eager fancy hurried with him 
Snatch'd thro' the perilous passes of his life : 
Till Leolin ever watchful of her eye 
Hated him with a momentary hale. 
Wife-hunting, as the rumor ran, was he : 
1 know not, for he spoke not, only shower'd 
His oriental gifts on every one 
And most on Edith : like a storm he came, 
And shook the house, and like a storm he 

went. 

Among the gifts he left her (possibly 
He flow'd and ebb'd uncertain, to return 
When others had been tested) there was one, 
A dagger, in rich sheath with jewels on it 
Sprinkled about in gold that branch'd itself 
Fine as ice-ferns on January panes 
Made by a breath. I know not whence at 

first. 
Nor of what race, the work ; but as he told 
The story, storming a hiil-fort of thieves 
He got it ; for their captain after fight. 
His comrades having fought their last below, 
Was climbing up the valley ; at whom he 

shot : 
Down from the beetling crag to which he 

clung 
Tumbled the tawny rascal at his feet, 
This dagger with him, which when now ad- 
mired 
By Edith whom his pleasure was to please, 
At once the costly Sahib yielded to her. 

And Leolin, coming after he was gone, 
Tost over all her presents petulantly : 
And when she show'd the wealthy scabbard, 

saying 
" Look what a lovely piece of workman- 
ship ! " 
Slight was his answer " Well — I care not 
for it": 



Then playing with the blade he prick'd his 

hand, 
"A gracious gift to give a lady, this ! " 
" But would it be more gracious," ask'd the 

girl, 
" Were I to give this gift of his to one 
That is no lady ? " "Gracious? No," said 

he. 
"Me? — but I cared not for it. O pardon 

me, 
I seem to be ungraciousness itself." 
"Take it," she added sweetly, " tho' his gift; 
For I am more ungracious ev'n than you, 
I care not for it either" ; and he said 
" Why then I love it " : but Sir Aylmer past, 
And neither loved nor liked the thing he 

heard. 

The next day came a neighbor. Blues and 

reds 
They taik'd of; blues were sure of it, he 

tl'.oiight : 
Then of the latest fox — where started — 

kill'd 
In such a bottom : " Peter had the brush, 
My Peter, first" : and did Sir Aylmer know 
That great pock-pitten fellow had been 

caught ? 
Then made his pleasure echo, hand to hand, 
And rolling as it were the substance of it 
Between his palms a moment up and down — 
" I'he birds were warm, the birds were warm 

upon him ; 
We have him now" : and had Sir Ayhner 

heard — 
Nay, but he must — the land was ringing of 

it — 
This blacksmith-border marriage — one they 

knew — 
Raw from the nursery — who could trust a 

child ? 
That cursed France with her egalities I 
And did Sir Aylmer (deferentially 
With neariiig chair and lower'd accent) 

think — 
For people taik'd — that it was wholly wise 
To let that handsome fellow Averili walk 
So freely with his daughter? peop.le taik'd — 
The boy niiglit get a r.otion into him ; 
The girl might be entangled ere she knew. 
Sir Aylmer Aylmer slowly stiffening spoke : 
" The girl and boy, Sir, know their difler- 

ences ! " 
"Good," said his friend, "but watch ! " and 

he " Enough, 
More than enough, Sir ! I can guard my 

own." 
They parted, and Sir Aylmer Aylmer watch'd. 

Pale, for on her the thunders of the liouse 
Had fallen first, was Edith that same niglit : 
Pale as the Jephtha's daughter, a rough piece 
Of early rigid color, under which 
Withdrawing by the counter door to that 
Wiiich Leolin open'd, she cast back upon him 
A piteous glance, and vanish'd. He, as one 
Caught in a burst of unexpected storm, 
And pelted with outrageous epithetSi 



AYLMEWS FIELD. 



223 



Turning beheld the Powers of the House 
On either side the hearth, indignant ; her, 
Cooling her false cheek with a teather-fan. 
Him glaring, by his own stale devil spnrr'd, 
And, like a beast hard-ridden, breathing hard. 
" Ungenerous, dishonorable, base. 
Presumptuous! trusted as he was with her, 
The solo succeedcr to their weaiih, their 

lands. 
The last remaining pillar of their house, 
The one transmitter of their ancient name. 
Their child." "Our child!" "Our heir- 
ess ! " " Ours ! " for still, 
Like echoes from beyond a hollow, came 
Her sicklier iteration. Last he said 
" Boy, mark me ! for your fortunes are to 

make. 
I swear you shall not make them out of mine. 
Now inasmuch as you have practised on her, 
Perplext her, made her half forget herself, 
Swerve from her duty to herself and us — ■ 
Things in an Aylmer deem'd impossible. 
Far as we track ourselves — I say that this, — 
Else I withdraw favor and countenance 
From you and yours forever — shall you do. 
Sir, when you see her — but you shall not 

see her — 
No, you shall write, and not to her, but me : 
And you shall say that having spoken with 

me, 
And after look'd into yourself, you find 
That you meant nothing — as indeed you 

know 
That you meant nothing. Such a match as 

this ! 
Impossible, prodigious ! " These were words. 
As meted by his measure of himself. 
Arguing boundless forbearance : after which, 
And Leolin's horror-stricken answer, " 1 
So foul a traitor to myself and her. 
Never, O never," for about as long 
As the wind-hover hangs in balance, paused 
Sir Aylmer reddening from the storm within. 
Then broke all bonds of courtesy, and crying 
" Boy, should I find you by my doors again 
My men shall lash you from them like a dog : 
Hence I " with a sudden execration drove 
The footstool from before him, and arose ; 
So, stammering "scoundrel" out of teeth 

that ground 
As in a dreadful dream, while LeoHn still 
Retreated half aghast, the fierce old man 
Follow'd, and under his own lir.tel stood 
Storming with lifted hands, a hoary face 
Meet for the reverence of the hearth, but 

now. 
Beneath a pale and unimpassion'd moon, 
Vext with unworthy madness, and deform'd. 

Slowly and conscious of the rageful eye 
That watch'd him, till he heard the ponder- 
ous door 
Close, crashing with long echoes thro' the 

land. 
Went Leolin ; then, his passions all in flood 
And masters of his motion, furiously 
Down thro' the bright lawns to his brother's 
raa. 



And foam'd away his heart at Averill's ear : 
Whom Averill solaced as he might, amazed : 
The man was his, had been his father's, 

friend : 
He must have seen, himself had seen it long ; 
He must have known, himself had known : 

besides. 
He never yet had set his daughter forth 
Here in the woman-markets of the west, 
Where our Caucasians let themselves be sold. 
Some one, he thought, had slander'd Leolin 

to him. 
" Brother, for I have loved you more as son 
Than brother, let me tell you ; I myself — 
What is their pretty saying? jilted, is it? 
Jilted 1 was: 1 say it for your peace. 
Pain'd, and, as bearing in myself the shame 
The woman should have borne, humiliated, 
I lived for years a stunted sunless life; 
Till alter our good parents past away 
Watching your growth, 1 seem'd again to 

grow. 
Leolin, I almost sin in envying you : 
The very whitest lamb in all my fold 
Loves you : 1 know her : the worst thought 

she has 
Is whiter even than her pretty hand : 
She must prove true : for, brother, where two 

fight 
The strongest wins, and truth and love are 

strength, 
And you are happy : let her parents be." 

But Leolin cried out the more upon them — 
Insolent, brainless, he.irtless! heiress, v;ea!th, 
Their wealth, their heiress ! wealth enough 

was theirs 
For twenty matches. Were he lord of this, 
Why twenty boys and girls should marry on 

it, ' 
And forty blest ones bless him, and himself 
Be wealthy still, ay wealthier. He believed 
This filthy marriage-hinderiiig Mammon 

made 
The harlot of the cities : nature crost 
Was mother of the foul adulteries 
That saturate soul with body. Name, too I 

name. 
Their ancient name ! they might be proud ; 

its worth 
Was being Edith's. Ah how pale she had 

look'd 
Darling, to-night ! they must have rated her 
Beyond all tolerance. These old pheasant- 
lords. 
These partridge-breeders of a thousand years. 
Who had mildew'd in their thousands, doing 

nothing 
Since Egbert — why, the greater their dis- 
grace ! 
Fall back upon a name ! rest, rot in that ! 
Not keep it noble, make it nobler.' fools. 
With such a vantage-ground for nobleness ! 
He had known a man, a quintessence of man, 
The life of all — who madly loved — -and he. 
Thwarted by one of these old father-fools. 
Had rioted his life out, and made an end. 
He would not do it 1 her sweet face and faith 



224 



A VLMER'S FIELD. 






Held him fiom that : but he had powers, he 

knew it : 
Back would he to his studies, make a name, 
Name, fortune too: the world should ring of 

him 
To shame these mouldy Aylmers in their 

graves : 
Chancellor, or what is greatest would he 

be — 
" O brother, I am grieved to learn your 

grief — 
Give me my fling, and let me say my say." 

At which, like one that sees his own excess, 
And easily forgives it as his own. 
He laiigh'd ; and then was mute; but pres- 
ently 
Wept like a storm : and honest Averill seeing 
How low his brother's mood had fallen, 

fetch'd 
His richest beeswing from a binn reserved 
For banquets, praised the waning red, and 

told 
The vintage — when ikis Aylmer came of 

age — 
Then drank and past it : till at length the 

two, 
Tho' Leolin flamed and fell again, agreed 
That much allowance must be made fur men. 
After an angry dream this kindlier glow 
Faded with morning, but his purpose held. 

Yet once by night again the lovers met, 
A perilous meeting under the tall pines 
That darken'd all the northward of her Hall. 
Him, to her meek and modest bosom prest 
In agony, slie promised that no force, 
Persuasion, no, nor death could alter her: 
He, passionately hopefuller, would go, 
Labor for his own Edith, and return 
In such a sunlight of prosperity 
He should not be rejected. " Write to me ! 
They loved me, and because I loved their 

child 
They hate me : there is war between us, 

dear, 
Which breaks all bonds but ours ; we must 

remain 
Sacred to one another." So they talk'd. 
Poor children, for their comfort : the wind 

blew ; 
The rain of heaven, and their own bitter 

tears. 
Tears, and the careless rain of heaven, mixt 
Upon their faces, as they kiss'd each other 
In darkness, and above them roar'd the pine. 

So Leolin went ; and as we task ourselves 
To learn a language known but sniatteringly 
In phrases here and there at random, toil'd 
Mastering the lawless science of our law, 
That codeless myriad of precedent. 
That wilderness of single instances. 
Thro' which a few, by wit or fortune led. 
May beat a pathway out to wealth and fame. 
The jests, that flash'd about the pleader's 

room. 
Lightning of the hour, the pun, the scurril- 
ous tale, — 



Old scandals buried now seven decades deep 
In other scandals that have lived and died, 
And left the living scandal that shall die — 
Were dead to him already ; bent as he was 
To make disproof of scorn, and strong in 

hopes. 
And prodigal of all brain-labor he. 
Charier of sleep, and wine and exercise, 
Except when for a breathing-while at eve 
Sorne niggard fraction of an hour he ran 
Beside the river-bank : and then indeed 
Harder the times were, and the hands of 

power 
Were bloodier, and the according hearts of 

men 
Seem'd harder too ; but the soft river-breeze, 
Which fann'd the gardens of that rival rose 
Yet fragrant in a heart remembering 
His former talks wiih Edith, on him breathed 
Far purelier in his rushings to and fro. 
After his books, to flush his blood with air, 
'I'hen to his books again. My lady's cousin, 
Half-sickening of his pensioned afternoon, | 
Drove in upon the student once or twice, I 

Ran a Malayan muck against the times, 5 

Had golden hopes for France and all man- 
kind, 
Answer'd all queries touching those at home 
With a heaved shoulder and a saucy smile, 
And fain had haled him out into the world. 
And air'd him there : hisnearer friend would , 

say, _ i 

" Screw not the cord too sharply lest it i 

snap." \ 

Then left alone he phick'd her dagger forth 
From where his worldless heart had kept it 

warm. 
Kissing his vows upon it like a knight. 
And wrinkled benchers often talk'd of him 
Approvingly, and prophesied his rise : 
For heart, I think, help'd head : her letters 

too, 
Tho' far between, and coming fitfully ,, 

Like broken music, written as she found i 

Or made occasion, being strictly watch'd, j 

Charm'd him thro' every labyrinth till he saw ! 
An end, a hope, a light breaking upon him. j 



But they that cast her spirit into flesh, 
Her worldly-wise begetters, plagued them- 
selves 
To sell her, those good parents, for her good. 
Whatever eldest-born of rank or wealth 
Might lie within their compass, him they 

lured 
Into their net made pleasant by the baits 
Of gold and beauty, wooing him to woo. 
So month by month the noise about their 

doors. 
And distant blaze of those dull banquets, 

made 
The nightly wirer of their innocent hare 
Falter before he took it. All in vain. 
Sullen, defiant, pitying, wroth, return'd 
Leolin's rejected rivals from their suit 
So often, that the folly taking wings 
Slipt o'er those lazy limits down the wind. 
With rumor, and became in other fields 



AYLMER'S FIELD. 



225 



A mockery to the yeomen over ale. 

And laughter to their lords : but those at 

home, 
As hunters round a hunted creature draw 
The cordon close and closer toward the death, 
Narrow'd her goings out and comings in ; 
Forbade her first the house of Averill, 
Then closed her access to the wealthier 

farms, 
Last from her own home-circle of the poor 
They barr'd her : yet she bore it : yet her 

cheek 
Kept color: wondrous ! but, O mystery; 
What amulet drew her down to that old oak. 
So old, that twenty years before, a part 
Falling had let apJDear the brand of John — 
Once grovelike, each huge arm a tree, but 

now 
The broken base of a black tower, a cave 
Of touchwood, with a single flourishing 

spray. 
There the manorial lord too curiously 
Raking in that millennial touchwood-dust 
Found for himself a bitter treasure-tiove : 
Burst his own wyvern on the seal, and read 
Writhing a letter from his child, for which 
Came at the moment Leolin's emissary, 
A crippled lad, and coming turn'd to fly. 
But scared with threats of jail and halter 

gave 
To him that fluster'd his poor parish wits 
The letter which he brought, and swore 

besides 
To play their go-between as heretofore 
Nor let them know themselves betray'd, and 

then. 
Soul-stricken at their kindness to him, went 
Hating his own lean heart and miserable. 

Thenceforward oft from out a despot 
dream 
Panting he woke, and oft as early as dawn 
Aroused the black republic on his elms, 
Sweeping the frothfly from the fescue, brush'd 
Thro' the dim meadow toward his treasure- 
trove. 
Seized it, took home, and to my lady, who 

made 
A downward crescent of her minion mouth, 
Listless in all despondence, read ; and tore, 
As if the living passion symbol'd there 
Were living nerves to feel the rent ; and 

burnt. 
Now chafing at his own great self defied. 
Now striking on huge stumbling-blocks of 

scorn 
In babyisms, and dear diminutives 
Scatter'd all over the vocabulary 
Of such a love as like a chidden babe. 
After much wailing, hush'd itself at last 
Hopeless of ansvver : then tho' Averill wrote 
And bade him with good heart sustain him- 
self— 
All would be well — the lover heeded not. 
But passionately restless came and went, 
And rustling once at night about the place. 
There by a keeper shot at, slightly hurt. 
Raging return'd : nor was it wejl for her 



Kept to the garden now, and grove of pines, 
Watch'd even there : and one was set to 

watch 
The watcher, and Sir Aylmer watch'd thein 

all, _ _ . j 

Yet bitterer from his readings : once indeed, \ 
Warm'd with his wines, or taking pride in her, \ 
She look'd so sweet, he kiss'd her tenderly, ; 
Not knowing what possess'd him : that one 

kiss 
Was Leolin's one strong rival upon earth ; 
Seconded, for my lady follow'd suit, 
Seem'd hope's returning rose : and then en- ;i 

sued |j 

A Martin's summer of his faded love, | 

Or ordeal by kindness ; after this | 

He seldom crost his child without a sneer; P 
The mother flnw'd in shallower acrimonies: j 
Never one kindly smile, one kindly word ; ; 
So that the gentle creature shut from all 
Her charitable use, and face to face 
With twenty months of silence, slowly lost 
Nor greatly cared to lose, her hold on life. 
Last, some low fever ranging round to spy 
The weakness of a people or a house. 
Like flies that haunt a wound, or deer, or | 

men, B 

Or almost all that is, hurting the hurt — j 

Save Christ as we believe him — found the ! 

girl ! 

And flung her down upon a couch of fire, ! 
Where careless of the household faces near, 
And crying upon the name of Leolin, 
She, and with her the race of Aylmer, past. 

Star to star vibrates light : may soul to soul [ 
Strike thro' a finer element of her own ? ; 

So, — from afar, — touch as at once ? or why * 
That night, that moment, when she named 

his name. 
Did the keen shriek, " Yes love, yes Edith, 

yes," 
Shrill, till the comrade of his chambers woke, 
And came upon him half-arisen from sleep. 
With a weird bright eye, sweating and tremb- 

hng. 
His liair as it were crackling into flames. 
His body half flung forward in pursuit. 
And his long arms stretch'd as to grasp a 

flyer : 
Nor knew he wherefore he had made the cry : 
And being much befool'd and idioted 
By the rough amity of the other, sank 
As into sleep again. The second day. 
My lady's Indian kinsman rushing in, 
A breaker of the bitter news from liome. 
Found a dead man, a letter edged with death 
Beside him, and the dapiger which himself J 
Gave Edith, redden'd wuh no bandit's blood : % 
" From Edith " was engraven on the blade. '\ 

Then Averill went and gazed upon his ^ 
death. 
And when he came again, his flock believed — 
Beholding how the years which are not Time's ^ 
Had blasted him — that many thousand days ■ 
Were dipt by horror from his term of life. ; 
Yet the sad mother, for the second death j 



226 



AYLMER'S FIELD. 



Scarce touch'd her thro' that nearness of the 

first, 
And being used to find her pastor texts, 
Sent to the harrnvv'd brother, praying him 
To speak before the people of her child. 
And fixt the Sabbath. Darkly that day rose : 
Autumn's mock sunshine of the faded woods 
Was all the life of it ; for hard on these, 
A breathless burthen of low-folded heavens 
Stifled and chill'd at once : but every roof 
Sent out a listener : many too had known 
Edith among the hamlets round, and since 
The parents' harshness and the hapless loves 
And double death were widely miirmur'd, 

left 
Their own gray tower, or plain-faced taber- 
nacle, 
To hear him ; all in mourning these, and 

those 
With blots of it about them, ribbon, glove 
Or kerchief; while the church, — one night, 

except 
For greenish glinunerings thro' the lancets, 

— made 
Still paler the pale head of him, who tower'd 
A'oove them, with his hopes in either grave. 

Long o'er his bent brows linger'd Avcrill, 
His face magnetic to the hand from which 
Livid he pluck'd it forth, and labor'd ihro' 
His brief prayer-prelude, gave the verse " Be- 
hold, 
Your house is left unto you desolate ! " 
But lapsed into so long a pa'.ise again 
As half amazed, half frighted all his flock : 
Then from his height and loneliness of grief 
Bore down in flood, and dash'd his angry 

heart 
Against the desolations of the world. 

Never since our bad earth became one sea. 
Which rolling o'er the palaces of tlie proud, 
And all but those who knew the living God — 
Eight that were left to make a purer world — 
When since had flood, fire, earthquake, 

thunder, wrought 
Such waste and havoc as the idolatries. 
Which from the low light of mortality 
Shot up their shadows to the Heaven of 

Heavens, 
And worshipt their own darkness as the 

Highest? 
"Gash thyself, priest, and honor thy brute 

Baal, 
And to thy worst self sacrifice thyself, 
For with thy worst self hast thou clothed thy 

God." 
Then came a Lord in no wise like to Ra.il. 
The babe shall lead the lion. Surely now 
The wilderness shall blossom as the rose. 
Crown thyself, worm, and worship thine own 

lusts ! — 
No coarse and blockish God of acreage 
Stands at thy gate for thee to grovel to — 
Thy God is far diffused in noble groves 
And princely halls, and farms, and flowing 

lawns, 
And heaps of living gold that daily grow, 



And title-scrolls and gorgeous heraldries. 
In such a shape dost thou behold thy God. 
Thou wilt not gash thy flesh for k.'jtt ; lol 

thine 
Fares richly, in fine linen, not a hair 
Ruffled upon the scarfskin, even while 
The deathless ruler of thy dying house 
Is wounded to the death that cannot die ; 
And tho' thou numberest with the follower? 
Of One who cried " Leave all and follow me. 
Thee therefore with His light about thy feei. 
Thee with His message ringing in thine eai ~,, 
Thee shall thy brother man, the Lord from 

Heaven, 
Bom of a village girl, carpenter's son. 
Wonderful, Pnnce of peace, the Mighty God, 
Count the more base idolater of the two ; 
Crueller : as not passing thro' the fire 
Bodies, but souls — thy children's — ihro'the 

smoke. 
The blight of low desires ^darker.ing thine 

own 
To thine own likeness ; or if one of these, 
Thy better born unhappily from thee, 
Should, as by miracle, giovvf straight and 

fair — 
Friends, I was bid to speak of such a one 
By those wlio most have cause to sorrow for 

her — 
Fairer than Rachel by the palmy well. 
Fairer than Ruth among the fields of com, 
I<"air as the Angel that said " hail " she 

seem'd. 
Who entering fill'd the house with sudden 

light. 
For so mine own was brighten'd : where in- 
deed 
The roof so lowly but that beam of Heaven 
Dawn'd sometimes thro' the doorway ? whose 

the babe 
Too ragged to be fondled on her lap, 
Warni'd at her bosom ? The poor child of 

shame. 
The common care whom no one cared for, 

leapt 
To greet her, wasting his forgotten herirt, 
As with the mother he had never known. 
In gambols ; for her fresh and innocent eyes 
Had such a star of morning in their blue, 
That ail neglected places of the field 
Broke into nature's music when they saw her. 
Low was her voice, but won mysterious way 
Thro' the seal'd ear, to which a louder one 
Was all but silence — free ofalnis her haid -^ 
The hand that robed your cottage-walls with 

flowers 
Has often toil'd to clothe your little ones ; 
How often placed upon the sick man's brtiw 
Cool'd it, or laid his feverouspillowsmooih ! 
Had you one sorrow and she shared it not? 
One burthen and she would not lighten it ? 
One spiritual doubt she did not soothe? 
Or when some heat of difference sparkled ont. 
How sweetly would she glide between your 

wraths. 
And steal you from each other ! forshe walk'd 
Wearing the light yoke of that Lord of love, 
Whostill'd the rolling wave of Gaiiice ! 



AYLMER'S FIELD. 



227 



And one — of him T was not bid to speak — 
Was always with her, whom you also knew. 
Him too you loved, for he was worthy love. 
And these had been together from the first ; 
They might have been together till the last. 
Friends, this frail bark of ours, when sorely 

tried. 
May wreck itself without the pilot's guilt, 
Without the captain's knowledge : hope with 

me. 
Whose shame is that, if he went hence with 

shame ? 
Nor mine the fault, if losing both of these 
I cry to vacant chairs and widow'd walls, 
" My house is left unto me desolate." 

While thus he spoke, his hearers wept ; but 

some. 
Sons of the glebe, with other frowns than 

those 
That knit themselves for summer shadow, 

scowl'd 
At their great lord. He, when it seem'd he 

saw 
No pale sheet-lightnings from afar, b;it fnrk'd 
Of the near storm, and aiming at his head. 
Sat angcr-charm'd from sorrow, soldier-like, 
Erect : but when the preacher's cadence 

fiow'd 
Softening thro' all the gentle attributes 
Of his lost child, the wife, who watcli'd his 

face. 
Paled at a sudden twitch of his iron mouth ; 
And, "O pray God that he hold up," she 

thought, 
"Or surely I shall shame myself and him." 

" Nor yours the blame — for who beside 

your liearths 
Can take her place — if echoing me you cry 
'Our house is left unto us desolate ' ? 
But thou, O thou that killest, hadst thou 

known, 
O thou that stonest, hadst thou tmderstood 
The things belonging to thy peace and ours ! 
Is there no prophet but the voice that calls 
Doom upon kings, or m the waste ' Repent ' ? 
Is not our own child on the narrow way. 
Who down to those that saunter in the broad 
Cries ' Come up hither,' as a prophet to us ? 
Is there no stoning save with flint and roc'K ? 
Yes, as the dead we weep for testify — 
No desolation but by sword and fire ? 
Yes, as your moanings witness, and myself 
Am lonelier, darker, earthlier for my loss. 
Give me your prayers, for he is past your 

prayers, 
Not past (he living fount of pity in Heaven. 
But I that thought myself long-suffering, 

meek. 
Exceeding ' poor in spirit ' — how the winds 
Have twisted back upon themselves and 

mean 
Vileness, we are grown so proud — I wish'd 

my voice 
A rushing tempest of the wrath of God 
To blow these sacrifices thro' the world — 
Sent like the twelve divided concubine 



To inflame the tribes ; but 'here — out yonder 

— earth 
Lightens from her own central Hell — O 

there 
The red fruit of an old idolatry — 
The heads of chiefs and princes fall so fast, 
They cling together in the ghastly sack — 
I'he land all shambles — naked marriages 
Flash from the bridge, and ever-murder'd 

France, 
By shores that darken with the gathering 

wolf, 
Runs in a river of blood to the sick sea. 
fs this a time to madden madness then ? 
Was this a time for these to flaunt their pride ? 
May Pharaoh's darkness, folds as dense as 

those 
Which hid the Holiest from the jjeople's eyes 
Ere the great death, shroud this great sin 

from all : 
Doubtless our narrowworld must canvass it ; 
<_) rather pray for those and pity them 
Who thro' their own desire accomplish'd 

bring 
Their own gray hairs with sorrow to the 

grave — 
Who broke the bond which they desired to 

break — 
Which else had link'd their race with times 

to come — 
Who wove coarse webs to snare her purity, 
Grossly contriving their dear daughter's 

good — 
Poor souls, and knew not what they did, 

but sat 
Ignorant, devising their own daughter's 

death ! 
May not that earthly chastisement suffice? 
Have not our love and reverence left them 

bare ? 
Will not another take their heritage? 
Will there be children's laughter in their hall 
Forever and forever, or one stone 
Left on another, or is it a light thing 
i'hat I their guest, their host, their ancient 

friend, 
I made by these the last of all niv race 
Must cry to these the Last of theirs, as cried 
(Christ ere His agony to those that swore 
Not by the temple but the gold, and made 
Their own traditions God, and slew the l.,ord, 
And left their memories a world's curse — 

'Behold, 
Your house is left unto you desolate '?" 

Ended he had not, but she brook'd no 
more : 
Long since her heart had beat remorsele.ssly. 
Her crampt-up sorrow pain'd her, and a sense 
Of moanness in her unresisting life. 
Then their eyes vext her ; for on entering 
He had cast the curtains of their seat aside — 
Black velvet of the costliest — she herself 
Had seen to that : fain had she closed them 

now. 
Yet dared not stir to do it, only near'd 
Her husband inch by inch, but when she laid 
Wifelike, her hand in one of his, he veil'd 



SEA DREAMS. 



His face willi tlic other, and at once, as falls 
A creeper wlien the prop is broken, fell 
The woman shrieking at liisfeet, andswoon'd. 
Then her own people bore along the nave 
Her pendent hands, and narrow meagre face 
Seam'd with the shallow cares of fifty years : 
And her the Lord of ail the landscape round 
Ev'n to its last horizon, and of all 
Who peer'd at him so keenly, follow'd out 
Tall and erect, but in the middle aisle 
Reel'd, as a footsore ox in crowded ways 
Stumbling across the market to his death, 
Unpitied ; for he groped as blind, and seem'd 
Always about to fall, grasping the pews 
And oaken finials till he louch'd the door; 
Yet to the lychgate, where his chariot stood. 
Strode from the porch, tall and erect again. 

But nevermore did either pass the gate 
Save under pall with bearers. In one month, 
Thro' weary and yet ever wearier hours. 
The childless mother went to seek her child ; 
And when he felt the silence of his house 
About him, and the change and not the 

change. 
And those fixt eyes of painted ancestors 
Staring forever from their gilded walls 
On him their last descendant, his own head 
Began to droop, to fall ; the man became 
Imbecile ; his one word was "desolate" ; 
Dead for two years before his death was lie ; 
But when the second Christmas came, es- 
caped 
His keepers, and the silence which he felt, 
To find a deeper in the narrow gloom 
By wife and child ; nor wanted at his end 
Tlie dark retinue reverencing death 
At golden thresholds ; nor from tender Hearts, 
And those who sorrow'd o'er a vauish'd race. 
Pity, the violet on the tyrant's grave. 
Then the great Hall was wholly broken down, 
And the broad woodland parcell'd inio farms ; 
And where the two contrived their daughter's 

good. 
Lies the hawk's cast, the mole has made his 

run. 
The hedgehog underneath the plantain bores, 
The rabbit fondles his own harmless face. 
The slow-worm creeps, and the thin weasel 

there 
Follows the mouse, and all is open field. 



SEA DREAMS. 

A CITV clerk, but gently born and bred ; 
His wife, an unknown artist's orphan child — 
One babe was theirs, a Margaret, three years 

old: 
They, thinking that her clear germander eye 
Droopt in the giant-factoried city-gloom, 
Came, with a month's leave given them, to 

the sea : 
For which his gains were dock'd, however 

small : 
Small were his gains, and hard liis work ; 

besides, 



Their slender household fortunes (for the man 
Had risk'd his little) like the little thrift. 
Trembled in perilous places o'er a deep ; 
And oft, when sitting all alone, his face 
Would darken, as he cursed his credulotts- 

ness, 
And that one unctuous mouth which lured 

him, rogue, 
To buy strange shares in some Peruvian 

mine. 
Now seaward-bound for heUth they gain'd a 

coast, 
All sand and cliff and deep-inrunning cave. 
At close of day; slept, woke, and went the 

next, 
The Sabbath, pious vaViers from the church, 
To chapel ; where a heated pulpiteer. 
Not preaching simple Christ to simple men. 
Announced the coming doom, and fulminated 
Against the scarlet woman and her creed : 
For sideways up he swung his arms, and 

shriek'd, 
"Thus, thus with violence," ev'n as if he 

held 
The Apocalyptic millstone, and himself 
Were that great Angel ; "thus with violence 
.Shall Babylon be cast into the sea ; 
Then comes the close." The gentle-hearted 

wife 
Sat shuddering at the ruin of a world ; 
He at his own : but when the wordy storm 
Had ended, forth they came and paced the 

shore. 
Ran in and out the long sea-framing caves, 
Drank the large air, and saw, but scarce be- 
lieved 
(The sootflake of so many a summer still 
Clung to their fancies) that they saw, the sea. 
So now on sand they walk'd, and now on 

cliff, 
Lingering about the thymy promontories. 
Till all the sails were darken'd in the west, 
And losed in the east : then homeward and to 

bed: 
Where she, who kept a tender Christian hope 
Haunting a holy text, and still to that 
Returning, as the bird returns, at night, 
" Let not the sun go down upon your wrath," 
Said, " Love, forgive him": but he did not 

speak ; 
And silenced by that silence lay the w;ife. 
Remembering her dear Lord who died for 

all, 
And musing on the little lives of men, 
And how they mar this little by their feuds. 

But while the two were sleeping, a full tide 
Rose with groimd-swell, which, on the fore- 
most rocks 
Touching, upjetted in spirts of wild sea- 
smoke. 
And scaled in sheets of wasteful foam, ar.a 

fell 
In vast sea-cataracts — ever and anon 
Dead claps of thunder from within the cIifTs 
Heard thro' the living roar. At tliis the babe. 
Their Margaret cradled near them, wail'd 
and woke . - 



SEA DREAMS. 



The mother, and the father suddenly cried, 
" A wreck, a wreck ! " then tuni'd, and groan- 
ing said, 

" Forgive ! How many will say, ' Forgive,' 

and find 
A r.ort of absolution in the sound 
To hate a little longer 1 No ; trie sin 
That neither God nor man can well forgive, 
Hypocrisy, f saw it in him at once. 
Is it so true that second thoughts are best ? 
Not first, and third, which are a riper first ? 
Too rijie, too late ! they come too late for 

use. 
Ah love, there surely lives in man and beast 
Something divine to warn them of their foes ; 
And such a sense, when I first fronted him, 
Said, ' Trust him not ' ; but after, when I 

came 
To know him more, I lost it, knew him less : 
Fought with what seem'd my own un- 

charity ; 
Sate his tabie ; drank his costly wines ; 
Made more and more allowance for his talk ; 
Went further, fool ! and trusted him with a.i. 
All my poor scrapings from a dozen years 
Of dust and deskwork ; there is no such 

mine. 
None ; but a gulf of ruin, swallowing gold, 
Not making. Ruin'd ! ruin'd ! the sea roars 
Ruin : a fearful night ! " 

" Not fearful ; fair," 
Said the good wife, "if every star in heaven 
Can make it fair : you do but hear the tide. 
Had you ill dreams .' " 

" O yes," he said, " I dream'd 
Of such a tide swelling toward the land. 
And I from out the boundless outer deep 
Swept with it to the shore, and enter'd one 
Of those dark caves that run beneath the 

cliffs. 
I thought the motion of the boundless deep 
Bore through the cave, and I was heaved 

upon it 
In darkness : then I saw one lovely star 
Larger and larger. ' What a world,' I 

thought, 
' To live in ! ' but in moving on I found 
Only the landward exit of the cave. 
Bright with the sun upon the stream beyond : 
And near the light a giant woman sat. 
Ail over earthy, like a piece of earth, 
A pickaxe in her hand : then out I slipt 
Into a land all sun and blossom, trees 
As high as heaven, and every bird that sings : 
And here the night-light flickering in my 

eyes 
Awoke me." 

"That was then your dream," she said, 
" Not sad, but sweet." 

" So sweet, I lay," said he, 
"And mused upon it, drifting up the stream 
In fancy, till I slept again, and pieced 
The broken vision ; ioi i dream'd that still 



The motio'.: of the great deep bore me on. 
And that the woman walk'd upon the brink: 
I wonder"d at her strength, and ask'd her of 

it : 
'It came,' she said, 'by working in thf 

mines' : 

then to ask her of my shares, I thought : 
And ask'd ; but not a word ; she shook her 

head. 
And tlien the motion of the current ceased. 
And there was rolling thunder ; and we 

reach'd 
A mountain, like a wall of burrs and thorns ; 
But she with her strong feet up the steep hill 
I'rod out a path : I follow'd ; and at top. 
She pointed seaward : there a fieet of glass. 
That seem'd a fleet of jewels under me, 
Sailmg along before a gloomy cloud 
That not one moment ceased to thunder, past 
In sunshine ; right across its track there lay, 
Down in the water, a long reef of gold. 
Or what seem'd gold : and I was glad at first 
To think that in our ofteti-ransacked world 
Still so much gold was left ; and then I fear'd 
Lest the gay navy there should splinter on it. 
And fearing waved my arm to warn them off; 
An idle sigr.al, for the brittle fleet 
(I thought I could have died to save it) 

near'd, 
Touch'd, clink'd, and clash'd, and vanish'd, 

and I woke, 

1 heard the clash so clearly. Now I see 
My dream was Life ; the woman honest 

Work ; 
And my poor venture but a fleet of glass, 
Wreck'd on a reef of visionary gold." 

" Nay," said the kindly wife to comfort 

him, 
" You raised your arm, you tumbled down 

and broke 
The glass with little Margaret's medicine in 

it: 
And, breaking that, you made and broke your 

dream : 
A trifle makes a dream, a trifle breaks." 

" No trifle," groan'd the husband ; " yes- 
terday 
I met him suddenly in the street, and ask'd 
That which [ ask'd the woman in my dream. 
Like her, he shook his head. ' Show me the 

books ! ' 
He lodged me with a long and loose account. 
' The books, the books ! ' but he, he could 

not wait. 
Bound on a matter of life and death : 
When the great Books {see Daniel seven and 

ten) 
Were open'd, I should find he meant me 

well : 
And then began to bloat himself, and ooze 
All over with the fat affectionate smile 
That makes the widow lean. 'My dearest 

friend. 
Have faith, have faith ! We live by faith,* 

said he ; 
' And all tUiags work together for the good 



23° 



SEA DREAMS. 



Of those ' — it makes me sick to quote him 

— last 
Gript my hand hard, and with God-bless-you 

went. 
I stood like one that had received a blow ; 
1 found a hard friend in his loose accounts^ 



eyes 



A loose one in the hard grip of his hand 
A curse in his God-bless-you : then my 
Pursued him down the street, and {tit away. 
Among the honest shoulders of the crowd. 
Read rascal in the motions of his batk, 
And scoundrel in the supple-sliding knee." 

" Was be so bound, poor soul ? " said the 

good wife ; 
" So are we all : but do not call hjni, love. 
Before you prove him, rogue^ and prored, 

forgive. 
His gain is loss ; for he tliat wrongs liis friend 
Wrrmgs himself more, and ever bears about 
A silent cosiit of justice in his breast, 
Himself the judge and jury, and himself 
The prisoner at the bar, ever condemn'd : 
And that drags down his life : then comes 

what comes 
Hereafter : and he n^eant, he said he meant, 
Perhaps he meant, or partly meant, you 

well." 

" 'With all his conscience and one eye 

askew ' — 
Love, let me quote these lines, that you may 

learn 
A man is likewise counsel for himself. 
Too ofter> in that silent court of yours — 
' With all his conscience and sine eye askew. 
So false, he partly took himself for true ; 
Whose pious talk, when most his heart was 

dry. 
Made wet the crafty crowsfoot roand his eye; 
Who, never naming God except for gain, 
So never toe^k that useful name in vain ; 
Made Him his catspaw and the Cross his 

tool. 
And Chris) the bait to trap his dupe and fool ; 
Nor deeds of gift, but gifts of grace he forged, 
And snakelike slimed bis victim ere he 

gorged ; 
And oft at Bible meetings, o'er the rest 
Arising, did his holy oily best. 
Dropping the too rough H in Hell and 

Heaven, 
To spread the Word by which himself had 

thriven.' 
How like you this old satire? " 

" Nay," she said, 
" I loathe it : Tie had never kindly heart, 
Nor ever cared to better bis own kind. 
Who first wrote satire with no pity in it. 
But will you hear rny dream, for ! had one 
That altogether went to music? Still 
It awed me." 

Then she told it, having dream'd 
Of that same coast. 

— " But round the North, a ligbt- 



A belt, it seem'd, of luminous vapor, lay, 

And ever in it a low musical note 

Swell'd «ip and died ; and, as it swell'd, a 

ndge 
Of breaker issued frron the belt, and still 
Grew with the growing note, and when the 

note 
Had reach'd a thimderous fulness, on those 

cliffs 
Broke, mix.t with awful light (the same as 

that 
Living within the belt} whereby she saw 
Tliat all those lines of cliffs were cliflFs no 

more. 
But huge cathedral fronts of every age. 
Grave, ilorid, stern, as far as eye could see, 
One after one : aud then the great ridge drew. 
Lessening to the lessening music, back. 
And past into the belt and swell'd again 
Slowly to music : ever vihen it broke 
The statues, king or saint, er founder, fell ; 
Then from the gaps and chasms of ruin left 
Came men and women in dark clusters round. 
Some crying ' Set ihem up ! they shall not 

fall ! * 
And others, 'Let them lie, for they have 

fall'n.' 
And still they strove and wrangled ; sod she 

grieved 
In her strange dream, she knew not why, to 

find 
Their wildest wailings never out of tune 
With that sweet note ; and ever as their 

shrieks 
Ran highest up the gamut, thai great wave 
Returnmg, while none snark'd it, on the 

crowd 
Broke, mixt with awful light, and show'd 

their eyes 
Glaring, and passionate looks, and swept 

away 
The men of flesh and blood, aud men of 

stmie. 
To the waste deeps together. 

" Then I fixt 
My wistful eyes on two fair images. 
Both crown'd with stars and high amcmg tbe 

stars, — 
The Virgin Mother standing with her child 
High up en one of those dark minster- 
fronts — 
nil she began to totter, and the child 
Clung to the mother, and sent out a cry 
Which mixi with little Margaret's, and I 

woke. 
And my dream awed me : — well — but what 

are dreams? 
Yours came but from the breaking of a glass, 
And mine but from the crying of a child." 

" Child? No ! " said he, " but this tide's 

roar, and his. 
Our Boanerges, with his threats of doom. 
And loud-lung'd Antibabylonianisms 
f Althu' I grant but little music there) 
Went both to make your dream; but if ibeie 

were 



THE GRANDMOTHER. 



23«. 



A music harmonizing our wild cries, 
Sphere music such as that you dreani'd about, 
Why, that would make our passions far too 

like 
The discords dear to the musician. No — 
One shriek of hate would jar all the hymns 

of heaven : 
True Devils with no ear, they howl in tune 
With nothing but the Devil ! " 

" ' True ' indeed ! 
One of our town, but later by an hour 
Here than ourselves, spoke with me on tlie 

shore ; 
While you were running down the sands, 

and made 
The ditnpled flounce of the sea-furbelow 

flap, 
Good man, to please the child. She brought 

strange news. 
Why were you silent when I spoke to-night? 
I had set my heart on your forgiving him 
Before you knew. We must forgive the 

dead." 

"Dead ! who is dead?" 

" The man your eye pursued. 
A little after you had parted with him. 
He suddenly dropt dead of heart disease." 

"Dead? he? of heart-disease? what heart 
had he 
To die of? dead 1 " 

"Ah, dearest, if there be 
A devil in man, there is an nngel too, 
Aud if he did that wrong you charge him 

with. 
His angel broke his heart. But your rough 

voice 
(You spoke so loud) has roused the child 

again. 
Sleep, little birdie, sleep ! will she not sleep 
Without her 'little birdie ' ? well then, sleep, 
And I will sing you ' birdie.' " 



Saying this, 
The woman half turn'd round from hun she 

loved. 
Left him one hand, and reaching thro' the 

night 
Her other, found (for it was close beside) 
And half embraced the basket cradle-head 
With one soft arm, which, like the pliant 

bough 
That moving moves the nest and nestling, 

sway'd 
The cradle, while she sang this baby song. 

What does little birdie say 
In her nest at peep of day? 
Let me fly, says little birdie, 
Mother, let me fly away. 
Birdie, rest a little longer. 
Till the little wings are stronger. 
So she rests a little longer. 
Then she flies away. 

What does little baby say. 
In her bed at peep of day ? 
Baby says, like little birdie. 
Let me rise and fly away. 
Baby, sleep a little longer. 
Till the little limbs are stronger. 
If she sleeps a little longer, 
Baby too shall fly away. 

" She sleeps : let us too, let all evil, sleep. 
He also sleeps — another sleep than ours. 
He can do no more wrong : forgive him, dear, 
And I shall sleep the sounder ! " 

Then the man, 
" His deeds yet live, the worst is yet to come. 
Yet let your sleep for this one night be sound ; 
1 do forgive him ! " 

" Tlianks, my love," she said, 
"Your own will be the sweeter," and they 
slept. 



THE GRANDMOTHER. 



And Willy, my eidest-bnm, is gone, you say, little Anne ? 
Ruddy and white, and strong on his legs, he looks like a man. 
And Willy's wife has written : slie never was over-wise, 
Never the wife for Willy : he would n't take rny advice. 



For, Annie, you see, her father was not the man to save. 
Had n't a head to manage, and drank iiimself into his grave. 
Pretty enough, very pretty ! but 1 was against it for one. 
Eh ! — but he wouldn't hear me — and Willy, you say, is gone. 



Willy, my beauty, my eldest- born, the flower of the flock ; 

Never a man could fling him : for Willy stood like a rock. 

" Here 's a leg for a baby of a week ! " says doctor : and he would be bound, 

There was not his like that year in twenty parishes round. 



832 THE GRANDMOTHER. 



Strong of his hands, and strong on his legs, but still of his tongue I 
I ought to have gone before him : 1 wonder he went so young. 
I cannot cry for him, Annie : I have not long to stay ; 
Perhaps I shall see him the sooner, for he lived far away. 



Why do you look at me, Annie ? you think I am hard and cold ; 
But all my children have gone before me, I am so old : 
I cannot weep for Willy, nor can I weep for the rest ; 
Only at your age, Annie, I could have wept with the best 



For I remember a quarrel f had with your father, my dear, 
All for a slanderous story, that cost me many a tear. 
I mean your grandfather, Annie : it cost me a world of woe, 
Seventy years ago, my darling, seventy years ago. 



For Jenny, my cousin, had come to the place, and I knew right well 
That Jenny had tript in her time : I knew, but I would not tell. 
And she to be coming and slandering me, the base little liar ! 
But the tongue is a fire, as you know, my dear, the tongue is a fire. 



And the parson made it his text that week, and he said likewise, 
That a lie which is half a truth is ever the blackest of lies. 
That a lie which is all a lie may be met and fought with outright. 
But a lie which is part a truth is a harder matter to fight. 

IX. 

And Willy had not been down to the farm for a week and a day ; 
And all things look'd half-dead, tlio' it was the middle of May. 
Jenny, to slander me, who knew what Jenny had been ! 
But soiling another, Annie, will never make one's self clean. 



And I cried myself wellnigh blind, and all of an evening late 

T climb'd to the top of the garth, and stood by the road at the gate. 

The moon like a rick on fire was rising over the dale. 

And whit, whit, whit, in the bush beside me chirrupt the nightingale. 



All of a sudden he stopt : there past by the gate of the farm, 
Willy, — he didn't see me, — and Jenny hiuig on his arm. 
Out into the road I started, and spoke I scarce knew how ; 
Ah, there 's no fool like the old one — it makes me angry now. 



Willy stood up like a man, and look'd the thing that he meant ; 
Jenny, the viper, made me a mocking courtesy and went. 
And 1 said, " Let us part : in a hundred years it '11 all be the same. 
You cannot love me at all, if you love not my good name." 

xin. 
And he tuni'd, and I saw his eyes all wet, in the sweet moonshine : 
" Sweetheart, I love you so well that your good name is mine. 
And what do I care for Jane, let her speak of you well or ill ; 
But marry me out of hand : we too shall be happy still." 



" Marry you, Willy ! " said I, " but I needs must speak my mind. 
And 1 fear you '11 listen to tales, be jealous and hard and unkind." 
But he turn'd and claspt me in his arms, and answer'd, " No, love, no' 
Seventy years ago, my darling, seventy years ago. 




Tlie Giandiiiother 



THE GRANDMOTHER. 



So Willy and I were wedded : I wore a lilac gown ; 
And the ringers rang witli a will, and lie gave the ringers a crown. 
But the first that ever I bare was dead before he was born, 
Shadow and shine is life, little Annie, flower and thorn. 

XVI. 

That was the first time, too, that ever I thought of death. 

There lay the sweet little body that never had drawn a breath. 

I had not wept, little Annie, not since I had been a wife ; 

But 1 wept like a child that day, for the babe had fought for his life. 

XVII. 

His dear little face was troubled, as if with anger or pain : 

I look'd at the still little body — his trouble had all been in vain. 

For Willy I cannot weep, I shall see him another morn : 

But I wept like a child for the child that was dead before he was bom. 

XVIII. 

But he cheer'd me, my good man, for he seldom said me nay : 
Kind, like a man, was he ; like a man, too, would have his way : 
Never jealous — not he : we had many a happy year ; 
And he died, and I could not weep — my own time seem'd so near. 

XIX. 

But I wish'd it had been God's will that F, too, then could have died ; 
I began to be tired a little, and fain had slept at his side. 
And that was ten years back, or more, if I don't forget: 
But as to the children, Annie, they 're all about me yet. 



Pattering over the boards, my Annie who left me at two, 
Patter she goes, my own little Annie, an Annie like you : 
Pattering over the boards, she conies and goes at her will. 
While Harry is in the five-acre and Charlie ploughing the hill. 

XXI. 

And Harry and Charlie, I hear them too — they sing to their team ; 
Often they come to the door in a pleasant kind of a dream. 
They come and sit by my chair, they hover about my bed — 
I am not always certain if they be alive or dead. 



And yet I know for a truth, there 's none of them left alive ; 
For Harry went at sixty, your father at sixty-five : 
And Willy, my eldest-born, at nigh threescore and ten : 
I knew them all as babies, and now they 're elderly men. 



For mine is a time of peace, it is not often I grieve ; 
I am oftener sitting at home in my father's farm at eve : 
And the neighbors come and laugh and gossip, and so do I ; 
I find myself often laughing at things that have long gone by. 



To be sure the preacher says, our sins should make us sad : 
But mine is a time of peace, and there is.Grace to be had ; 
And God, not man, is the Judge of us all when life shall cease; 
And in this Book, little Annie, the message is one of Peace. 



And age is a time of peace, so it be free from pain. 
And happy has been my life ; but I would not live it again. 
I seem to be tired a little, that 's all, and long for rest : 
Only at your age, Annie, I could have wept with the best. 



a-i4 



NORTHERN FARMER. 

XXVI. 

So Willie has gone, my beauty, my eldest-bom, my flower ; 
But how can I weep f(ir Willy, he lias but gone for an hour, — 
Gone for a minute, my son, from this room into the next ; 
1, too, shall go in a minute. What time have I to be vext? 

XXVII. 

And Willy's wife has written, she never was over-wise. 

Get me my glasses, Annie : thank God that I keep my eyes. 

There is but a trifle left you, when I shall have past away. 

But stay with the old woman now : you cannot have long to stay. 



NORTHERN FARMER. 

OLD STYLE, 



Wheer 'asta bean saw long and mea liggin' 'ere aloan ? 
Noorse? thoort nowt o' a noorse ; whoy, doctor 's abean an' agoan i 
Says that I moant 'a naw moor yaale : but I beant a fool ; 
Git ma my yaale, for I beaut a-gooin' to break my rule. 

II. 
Doctors, they knaws nowt, for a says what 's nawways true : 
Naw soort o' koind o' use to saay the things that a do. 
I 've 'ed my point o' yaale ivry noight sin' I bean 'ere. 
An' I 've 'ed my quart ivry market-noight for foorty year. 

III. 
Parson 's a bean loikewoise, an' a sittin 'ere o' my bed. 
" The amoighty 's a taakin o' you to 'issen, my friend" 'a said, 
An' a towd ma my sins, an 's toithe were due, an' I gied it in bond ; 
1 done my duty by un, as I 'a done by the lond. 



Larn'd a ma' bea. I reckons I 'annot sa mooch to lam. 

But a cost oop, thot a did, 'boot Bessy Marris's barn. 

Thof a knaws I hallus voated wi' Squoire an' choorch an staate. 

An' i' the woost o' toimes I wur niver agin the raate. 

V. 

An' I hallus comed to 's choorch afoor my Sally wur dead, 
An' 'eerd un a bummin' a waav loike a buzzard-clock * ower my yead. 
An' I niver knaw'd whot a mean'd but I thowt a 'ad suminut to saay, 
An' I thowt a said whot a owt to 'a said an' I comed awaay. 



Bessy Marris's bam ! tha knaws she laiiid it to mea. 
Mowt a bean, mayhap, for she wur a bad un, shea. 
'Siver, I kep un, t kep un, my lass, tha mun understond ; 
I done my duty by un as I 'a done by the lond. 

VII. 

But Parson a comes an' a goos, an' a says it easy an' freea 

" The amoighty 's a taakin o' you to 'issen, my friend," says 'ea. 

I weiint saay men be lniar.s, thof summon said it in 'aiiste : 

But a reads wonu sarmin a weeak, an' I 'a stubb'd Thornaby waaste. 

VIII. 

D' ya moind the waaste, my lass ? naw, naw, tha was not born then ; 

Theer wur a boggle in it, 1 often 'eerd un mysen : 

Moast loike a biitter-bump, t for I 'eerd un aboot an aboot. 

But I stubb'd un oop wi' the lot, and raaved an' rembled un oot. 

• Cockchafor. t Bittern. 



TITHONUS. 

IX. 

Reaper's it wur; fo' thty fun un theer a laSid on 'is faace 
Dooii i' the woild 'enemies *afoc>r I corned to the plaace. 
Noiiks or Thimbleby — toner 'eJ shot an as dead as a naaiL 
Noaks wur 'aug'd for it oop at 'soize — but git ma ray yaale. 

X. 

Dubbut looak at the waiiste : theer war n't not fead for a cow; 
Nowt at all but bracken an' fuzz, an' looak at it now — 
War n't worth nowt a haacre, an' now theer 's lots o' fead. 
Fourscore yows upon it an' some on it doon in sead. 

XI. 

Nobbut a bit on it 's left, an' I mean'd to 'a stubb'd it at fall. 
Done it ta-year I mean'd, an' runn'd plow thruff it an' all, 
If godamoightv an' parson 'ud nobbut let ma aloan, 
Meii, wi' haate' oonderd haacre o' Squoire's an' load o' my oan. 

XII. 

Do godamoighty knaw what a 's doing a-taakin' o' mea ? 
I beant wonn as saws 'ere a bean an' yonder a pea ; 
An' Squoire 'uU be sa mad an' all — a' dear a' dear ! 
And I 'a monaged tor Squoire come Michaelmas thirty year. 

xai. 
A mowt 'a taaken Joanes, as 'ant a 'aapoth o' sense. 
Or a mowt 'a taaken Robins — a niver mended a fence : 
But godamoighty a moost taake mea an' taake ma now 
Wi' auf the cows to cauve an' Thornaby holms to plow ! 

XIV. 

Looak 'ow quoloty smoiles when they sees ma a passin' by, 
Says to thessen naw doot " what a mon a be sewer-ly ! " 
For they knaws what I bean to Squoire sin fust a corned to the 'All ; 
I done ray duty by Squoire an' I done my duty by all. 

XV. 

Squoire 's in Lunnon, an' summun I reckons 'ull 'a to wroite, 
For who 's to howd the loud ater meii thot muddles ma quoit ; 
Sartin-sewer I bea, thot a weant niver give it to Joanes, 
Neither a raoant to Robins — a niver rembles the stoans- 

XVI. 

Butsummun'ull come ater mea mayhap wi' 'is kittle o' steam 
Huzzin' an' maazin' the blessed fealds wi' the Divil's oan team 
Gin I mun doy I mun doy, an' loife they savs is sweet, 
But gin I mun doy I mun doy, for I couldu abear to see it. 

xvii. 
What atta stanniii' theer for, an' do2sn bring ma the yaale ? 
Doctor 's a 'tottler, lass, and a 's hallus i' the owd taSle ; 
I weant break rules for Doctor, a knaws naw moor nor a floy ; 
Git ma my yaale I tell tha, an' gin I mun doy I mun doy. 



TITHONUS. 

The woods decay, the woods docay and fall. 
The vapors weep their burthen to the ground, 
Man comes and tills the field and lies be- 
neath. 
And after many a summer dies the swan. 
Me only cruel immortality 
Consumes : I wither slowly in thine arms. 
Here at the quiet limit of the world, 
A white-hair'd shadow roaming like a dream 



The ever silent spaces of the East, 
Far-folded mists, and gleaming halls of morn. 
Alas ! for this gray shadow, once a man — 
.So glorious in his beauty and thy choice. 
Who madest him thy chosen, that he seem'd 
To his great heart none other than a God ! 
I ask'd thee " Give me immortality." 
Then didst thou grant mine asking with a 

smile. 
Like wealthy men who care not how they 
give. 



236 



THE VOYAGE. 



But thy strong Hours indignant work'd their 

wills, 
And beat me down and marred and wasted me, 
And tlio' tliey could not end me, left me 

maim'd 
To dwell in presence of immortal youth, 
Immortal age beside immortal youth. 
And all I was, in ashes. Can thy love, 
Thy beauty, make amends, tho' even now. 
Close over us, the silver star, thy guide, 
Shines in those tremulous eyes that fill with 

t^ars 
To hear me ? Let me go : take back thy 

gift : 
Why should a man desire in any way 
To vary from the kindly race of men. 
Or pass beyond the goal of ordinance 
Where all should pause, as is most meet for 

all? 

A soft air fans the cloud apart : there comes 
A glimpse of tliat dark world where 1 was 

bom. 
Once more the old mysterious glimmer steals 
From thy pure brows, and from thy shoul- 
ders mire. 
And bosom beating with a lieart renew'd. 
'J'hy cheek begins to redden thro' the gloom, 
Thy sweet eyes brighten slowly close to mine. 
Ere yet they blind the stars, and the wild 

team 
Which love thee, yearning for thy yoke, arise, 
And shake the darkness from their loosen'd 

manes, 
And beat the twilight into flakes of fire. 

Lo ! ever thus thou growest beautiful 
In silence, then before thine answer given 
Departest, and thy tears are on my cheek. 

Why wilt thou ever scare me with thy 

tears. 
And make me tremble lest a saying learnt 
In days far-off, on that dark earth, be true ? 
" The Gods themselves cannot recall their 

gifts." 

Ay me ! ay me ! with what another heart 
In days far-off, and with what other eyes 
I used to watch — if I be he that watch'd — 
The lucid outline forming round thee ; saw 
The dim curls kindle into sunny rings ; 
Changed with thy mystic change, and felt 

my blood 
Glow with the glow that slowly crlmson'd all 
Thy presence and thy portals, while I lay. 
Mouth, forehead, eyelids, growing dewy- 
warm 
With kisses balmier than half-opening buds 
Of April, and could hear the lips that kiss'd 
Whispering I knew not what of wild and 

sweet. 
Like that strange song I heard Apollo sing. 
While Ilion like a mist rose into towers. 

Yet hold me not forever in thine East : 
How can my nature longer mix with thine ? 
Coldly thy rosy shadows bathe me, cold 



Are all thy lights, and cold my -vrinkled feet 
Upon thy glimmering thresholds, when the 

steam 
Floats up from those dim fields about the 

homes 
Of happy men that have the power to die, 
And grassy barrows of the happier dead. 
Release me, and restore me to the ground : 
Thou seest all things, thou wilt see my grave ; 
Thou wilt renew thy beauty morn by morn ; 
1 earth in earth forget these empty courts, 
And thee returning on thy silver wheels. 



THE VOYAGE. 



We left behind the painted buoy 

That tosses at the harbor-mouth : 
And madly danced our hearts with joy, 

As fast we fleeted to the South : 
How fresh was every sight and sound 

On open main or winding shore ! 
We knew the merry world was round, 

And we might sail forevermore. 



Warm broke the breeze against the brow, 

Dry sang the tackle, sang the sail : 
The Lady's-head upon the prow 

Caught the shrill salt, and sheer'd the gale. 
The broad seas swell'd to meet the keel, 

And swept behind : so quick the run, 
We felt the good ship shake and reel. 

We seem'd to sail into the Sun ! 



How oft we saw the Sun retire, 

And burn the threshold of the night. 
Fall from his Ocean-lane of fire, 

And sleep beneath his pillar'd light I 
How oft the purple-skirted robe 

Of twilight slowly downward drawn, 
As thro' the slumber of the globe 

Again we dash'd into the dawn I 



New stars all night above the brim 

Of waters lighten'd into view ; 
They climb'd as quickly, for the rim 

Changed every moment as we flew. 
Far ran the naked moon across 

The houseless ocean's heaving field, 
Or flying shone, the silver boss 

Of her own halo's dusky shield ; 



The peaky islet shifted shapes. 

High towns on hills were dimly seen, 
We past long lines of Northern capes 

And dewy Northern meadows green. 
We came to warmer waves, and deep 

Across the boundless east we drove. 
Where those long swells of breaker sweep 

The nutmeg rocks and isles of clove. 



IN THE I ALLEY OF CA UTERETZ. — REQUIESCA T. 



By peaks that flamed, or, all in shade, 

Gloom'd the low coast and quivering brine 
With ashy rains, that spreading made 

Fantastic plume or sable pine ; 
By sands and steaming flats, and floods 

Of mighty mouth, we scudded fast, 
And hills and scarlet-mingled woods 

Glow'd for a moment as we past. 

VII 

O hundred shores of happy climes. 

How swiftly stream'd ye by the bark ! 
At times the whole sea burn'd, at times 

With wakes of fire we tore the dark ; 
At times a carven craft would shoot 

From havens hid in fairy bowers. 
With naked limbs and flowers and fruit. 

But we nor paused for fruits nor flowers. 

VIII. . 

For one fair Vision ever fled 

Down the waste waters day and night, 
And still we follow'd where she led 

In hope to gain upon her flight. 
Her face was evermore unseen, 

And tixt upon the far sea-line ; 
But each man murmured, " O my Queen, 

I follow till I make thee mine." 

And now we lost her, now she gleam'd 

Like Fancy made of golden air. 
Now nearer to the prow she seem'd 

Like Virtue firm, like Knowled;;e fair, 
Now high on waves that idly burst 

Like Heavenly Hope she crown'd the sea, 
And now, the bloodless point reversed. 

She bore the blade of Liberty. 



And only one among us — him 

We pleased not — he was seldom pleased : 
He saw not far : his eyes were dim : 

But ours he swore were all diseased. 
"A ship of fools," he shriek'd in spite, 

"A ship of fools," he sneer'd and wept. 
And overboard one stormy night 

He cast his body, and on we swept. 

XI. 

And never sail of ours was furl'd 

Nor anchor dropt at eve or morn ; 
We loved the glories of the world, 

But laws of nature were our scorn ; 
For blasts would rise and rave and cease, 

Bat whence were those that drove the sail 
Across the whirlwind's heart of peace. 

And to and thro' the counter-gale? 



Again to colder climes we came, 

For still we follow'd where she led : 
Now mate is blind and captain lame, 

An I half the crew are sick or dead. 
But blind or lame or sick or sound 

We follow that which flies before : 
We know the merry world is round, 

And we may sail forevermore. 



IN THE VALLEY OF CAUTERETZ. 

All along the valley, stream that flashest 

white. 
Deepening thy voice with the deepening of 

the night. 
All along the valley, where thy waters flow, 
1 walk'd with ope I loved two and thirty 

years ago. 
All along the valley while I walk'd to-day, 
I'he two and thirty years were a mist that 

rolls away ; 
For all along the valley, down thy rocky bed, 
Thy living voice to me was as the voice of 

the dead. 
And all along the valley, by rock and cave 

and tree. 
The voice of the dead was as a living vo'.ce 

to me. 



THE FLOWER. 

Once in a golden hour 
I cast to earth a seed. 

Up there came a flower. 
The people said, a weed. 

To and fro they went 
Thro' my garden-bower. 

And muttering discojitent 
Cursed me and my flower. 

Then it grew so tall 

It wore a crown of light. 

But thieves from o'er the wall 
Stole the seed by night. 

Sow'd it far and wide 

By every town and tower, 

Till all the people cried, 
" Splendid is the flower." 

Read my little fable : 
He that runs may read. 

Most can raise the flowers now, 
For all have got the seed. 

And some are pretty enough, 
And some are poor indeed ; 

And now again the people 
Call it but a weed. 



REQUIESCAT. 

Fair is her cottage in its place. 

Where yon broad water sweetly slowly 
glides. 
It sees itself from thatch to base 

Dream in the sliding tides. 

And fairer she, but ah, how soon to die ! 

Her quiet dream of life this hour may 
cease. 
Her peaceful being slowly passes by 

I'o some more perfect peace. 



238 



THE SAILOR-BOY.— THE ISLET. — THE RINGLET. 



THE SAILOR-BOY. 



He rose at dawn and, fired witli hope, 
Sliot o'er the seething harbor-bar. 

And reach'd the ship and caught the rope, 
And whistled to the morning star. 

And while he whistled long and loud 
He heard a fierce nierniaiden cry, 

" O Boy, tho' thou art young and proud, 
1 see the place where thou wilt lie. 

" The sands and yeasty surges mix 

In caves about the dreary bay. 
And on thy nbs the limpet slicks, 

And in thy heart the scrawl shall play." 

" Fool," he answer'd, " death is sure 
To tliose that stay and those that roam, 

But I will nevermore endure 
To sit with empty hands at home. 

" My mother clings about my neck. 
My sisters crying, 'Stay, for shame ' ; 

My tatlier raves ot deaih and wreck. 
They are all to blame, they are all to 
blame. 

" God help me ! save I take my part 

Of danger on the roaring sea, 
A devil rises in my heart. 

Far worse than any death to me." 



THE ISLET. 

" Whither, O whither, love, shall we go. 
For a score of sweet little summers or so.' " 
The sweet little wife of the singer said 
On the day that follow'd the day she was 

wed ; ,, 

" Whither, O wliither, love, shall we go ? 
And the singer shaking his curly head 
Turn'd as he sat, and struck the keys 
There at his right with a sudden crash. 
Singing, " And shall it be over the seas 
With a crew that is neither rude nor rash, 
But a bevy of Eroses apple cheek'd, 
In a shallop of crystal ivory-beak'd, 
With a satin sail of a ruby glow. 
To a sweet little Eden on earth that I know, 
A mountain islet pointed and peak'd ; 
Waves on a diamond shingle dash, 
Cataract brooks to the ocean run, 
Fairily-delicate palaces shine 
Mixt with myrtle and clad with vine. 
And overstream'd and silvery-streak'd 
With many a rivulet high against the Sun 
The facets of the glorious mountain flash 
Above the valleys of palm and pine." 
" Thither, O thither, love, let us go." 

" No, no, no ! 

For in all that exquisite isle, mv dear. 
There is but one bird with a musical throat, 
And his compass is but of a single note. 
That it makes one weary to hear." 
" Mock me not 1 mock me not ! love, let us 
go." 



" No, love, no. 

For the bud ever breaks into bloom on the 

tree. 
And a storm never wakes on the lonely sea, 
And a wcirni is there in the lonely wood. 
That pierces the liver and blackens the 

blood. 
And makes it a sorrow to be." 



THE RINGLET. 

" Your ringlets, your ringlets. 

That look so golden gay. 
If you will give me one, but one. 

To kiss it night and day. 
Then never chilling touch of Time 

Will turn it silver-gray ; 
And then shall I know it is all true gold 
To tlame and sparkle and stream as of old, 
Till all the comets in heaven are cold, 

And all her stars decay." 
" Then take it, love, and put it by ; 
This cannot change, nor yet can 1." 

2. 

" My ringlet, my ringlet, 

'I'hat art so golden-gay. 
Now never chilling touch of Time 

Can turn thee silver-gray ; 
And a lad may wink, ard a girl may hint, 

And a fool may say his say ; 
For my doubts and fears were all amiss. 
And I sv\ear henceforth by this and this, 
That a doubt will only come for a kiss, 

And a fear to be kiss'd away." 
" 'I'hen kiss it, love, and put it by : 
If this can change, why so can 1." 



Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

I kiss'd you night and day. 
And Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

You still are golden -gay. 
But Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

You should be silver-gray: 
For what is this which now I 'm told, 

1 that took you for true gold. 

She that gave you 's bought and sold. 
Sold, sold. 



O Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

She blush'd a rosy red. 
When Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

She dipt you from her head. 
And Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

She gave you me, and said, 
" Come, kiss it, love, and put it by: 
If this can change, why so can I." 
O fie, you golden nothing, fie _ 
You golden lie. 



O Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

I count you mich to blame. 
For Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

You put ine much to shame. 



A WELCOME TO ALEXANDRA.— TH E CAPTAIN. 



So Ringlet, O Rinslet, 

I doom you to the flame. 
For what is this which now I learn, 
Has given all my faitli a Uirn ? 
Bum, you glossy heretic, burn, 
Burn, burn. 



A WELCOME TO ALEXANDRA. 

March 7, 1863. 

Sea-kings' daughter from over the sea, 

Alexandra ! 
Saxon and Norman and Dane are we, 
But all of us Danes in our welcome of thee, 
Alexandra ! 
Welcome her, thunders of fort and of fleet ! 
Welcome her, thundering cheer of the street ! 
Welcome her, all things youthful and sweet. 
Scatter the blossom under her feet ! 
Break, happy land, into earlier flowers ! 
Make music, O bird, in the new-budded 

bowers ! 
Blazon your mottoes of blessing and praver ! 
Welcome her, welcome her, all that is ours ! 
W.-rble, O bugle, and trumpet, blare ! 
Flags, flutter out upon turrets and towers ! 
Flames, on the windy headland flare ! 
Utter your jubilee, steeple and spire ! 
Clash, ye bells, in the merry March air ! 
Flash, ye cities, in rivers of fire ! 
R.ish to the roof, sudden rocket, and higher 
Melt into the stars for the land's desire ! 
Roll and rejoice, jubilant voice. 
Roll as a ground-swell dash'd on the strand. 
Roar as the sea when he welcomes the land, 
And welcome her, welcoine the land's desire. 
The sea-kings' daughter as happy as fair. 
Blissful bride of a blissful heir. 
Bride of the heir of the kings of the sea — 
O joy to the people, and joy to the throne. 
Come to us, love us, and make us your own : 
For Saxon or Dane or Norman we, 
Teuton or Celt, or whatever we be. 
We are each all Dane in our welcome of thee, 
Alexandra ! 



ODE SUNG AT THE OPENING OF 
THE INTERNATIONAL EXHI- 
BITION. 

Uplift a thousand voices full and sweet. 
In this wide hall with earth's invention 

stored, 
And praise th' invisible universal Lord, 
Who lets once more in peace the nations 
meet. 
Where Science, Art, and Labor have out- 
pour'd 
Their myriad horns of plenty at our feet. 

O silent father of our Kings to be 
Mourn'd in this golden hour of jubilee. 
For this, for all, we weep our thanks to thee ! 

The world-compelling plan was thine, 
And lo ! the long laborious miles, 



Of Palace ; lo ! the giant aisles, 

Rich in model and design ; 

Harvest-tool and husbandry. 

Loom and wheel and engin'ry. 

Secrets of the sullen mine, 

Steel and gold, and corn and wine. 

Fabric rough, or Fairy fine, 

Sunny tokens of the Line, 

Polar marvels, and a feast 

Of wonder out of West and East, 

And shapes and hues of Art divuie ! 

All of beauty, all of use. 

That one fair planet can produce. 

Brought from under every star, 
Blown from over every main, 
And mixt, as life is mixt with pain, 

The works of peace with works of war. 

O ye, the wise who think, the wise who reign. 
From growing commerce loose her latest 

chain. 
And let the fair white-winged peacemaker fly 
To happy havens under all the sky. 
And iuix the seasons and the golden hours. 
Till each man finds his own in all men's good. 
And all men work in noble brotherhood. 
Breaking their mailed fleets and armed 

towers. 
And ruling by obeying Nature's powers. 
And gathering all the fruits of peace and 

crowu'd with all her flowers. 



A DEDICATION. * 

Dear, near and true— no truer Time him- 
self 
Can prove you, tho' he make vou evermore 
Dearer and nearer, as the rapid of life 
Shoots to the fall — take this, and pray that 

he. 
Who wrote it, honoring your sweet faith in 

him. 
May trust himself; and spite of praise and 

scorn. 
As one who feels the immeasurable world. 
Attain the wise indifference of the wise ; 
And after Autumn past — if left to pass 
His autumn into seeming-leafless days — 
Draw toward the long frost and longest 

night. 
Wearing his wisdom lightly, like the fruit 
Which in our winter woodland looks a 
flower. * 



THE CAPTAIN. 

A LEGEND OF THE NAVY. 

He that only rules by terror 

Doeth grievous wrong. 
Deep as Hell I count his error. 

Let him hear my song. 

• The 'ruit of the Spindle-tree {Euonymus Euro- 
pans). 



Z40 



THREE SONNETS TO A COQUETTE. —ON A MOURNER. 



Brave the Captain was : the seamen 

Made a gallant crew. 
Gallant sons of English freemen, 

Sailors bold and true. 
But they hated his oppression, 

Stern he was and rash ; 
So for every light transgression 

Doom'd them to the lash. 
Day by day more harsh and cruel 

Seem'd the Captain's mood. 
Secret wrath like smother'd fuel 

Burnt in each man's blood. 
Yet he hoped to purchase glory, 

Hoped to make the name 
Of his vessel great in story, 

Wheresoe'er he came. 
So they past by capes and islands. 

Many a harbor-mouth. 
Sailing under palmy highlands 

Far within the South. 
On a day when tliey were going 

O'er tlie lone expanse, 
In the North, her canvas flowing, 

Rose a ship of France. 
Then the Captain's color heighteu'd, 

Joyful came his speech : 
But a cloudy gladness lighten'd 

In the eyes of each. 
" Chase," he said : the ship flew forward, 

And the wind did blow ; 
Stately, lightly, went she Norward, 

Till she near'd the foe. 
Then they look'd at him they hated. 

Had what they desired : 
MiUe with folded arms they waited — 

Not a gun was fired. 
But they heard the foeman's thunder 

Roaring out their doom ; 
All the air was torn in sunder. 

Crashing went the boom, 
Spars were splinter'd, decks were shatter'd, 

Bullets fell like rain ; 
Over mast and deck were scatter'd 

Blood and brains of men. 
Spars were splinter'd : decks were broken : 

Every mother's son — 
Down tliey dropt — no word was spoken — 

Each beside his gun. 
On the decks as they were lying. 

Were their faces grim. 
In their blood, as thev lay dying. 

Did they smile on him. 
Those, in whom he had reliance 

For his noble name, 
With one smile of still defiance 

Sold him unto shame. 
Shame and wrath his heart confounded. 

Pale he turn'd and red, 
Till himself was deadly wounded 

Falling on the dead. 
Dismal error ! fearful slaughter 1 

Years have wander'd by. 
Side by side beneath the water 

Crew and Captain lie ; 
There the sunlit ocean tosses 

O'er them mouldering, 
And the lonely seabird crosses 

With one waft of the wing. 



THREE SONNETS TO A COQUETTE. 

Caress'd or chidden by the dainty hand, 

And singing airy trifles this or that, 
Light Hope at Beauty's call would perch and 
stand, 
And run thro' every change of sharp and 

flat: 
And Fancy came and at her pillow sat. 
When Sleep had bound her in his rosy band. 

And chased away the still-recurring gnat. 
And woke her with a lay from fairy land. 
But now they live with Beauty less and less. 
For Hope is other Hope and wanders far. 
Nor cares to lisp in love's delicious 
creeds ; 
And Fancy watches in the wilderness, 
Poor Fancy sadder than a single star. 
That sets at twilight in a land of reeds. 



The form, the form alone is eloquent ! 
A nobler yearning never broke lier rest 
Than but to dance and sing, be gayly drest. 
And win all eyes with all accomplishment: 
Yet in the waltzing-circle as we went. 
My fancy made me tor a moment blest 
To find my heart so near the beauteous 
breast 
That once had power to rob it of content. 
A moment came the tenderness of tears. 
The phantom of a wish that once could 
move, 
A ghost of passion that no smiles re« 
store — 
For ah ! the slight coquette, she cannol 
love, 
And if you kiss'd her feet a thousand years, ; 
She still would take the praise, and care f 
no more. 

3- 
Wan Sculptor, weepest thou to fake the cast 
Of those dead lineaments that near thee 
lie? 

sorrow est thou, pale Painter, for the past. 
In painting some dead friend from mem- 
ory ? 

Weep on : beyond his object Love can last' 
His object lives : more cause to weep have 
I: 
Mv tears, no tears of love, are flowing fast. 
No tears of love, but tears that Love can 
die. 

1 pledge her not in any cheerful cup. 

Nor care to sit beside her where she sits — 
Ah pity — hint it not in human tones. 
But breathe it into earth and close it up 
With secret death forever, in the pits 
Which some green Christmas crams with 
weary bones. 



ON A MOURNER. 

Nature, so far as in her lies, 

Imitates Go^, and turns her face 
To every laud beneath the skies. 



SOIVGS. — BO A DICE A. 



Counts notliing that slie meets with base, 
But Hves aud loves in every place ; 



Fills out the homely quickset screens. 
And makes the inirple lilac ripe. 

Steps from her airy hill, and greens 

The swamp, where hums the dropping 

snipe. 
With moss and braided marish-pipe ; 



And on thy heart a finger lays, 

Saying, " Beat quicker, for the time 

Is pleasant, and the woods and ways 
Are pleasant, and the beech and lime 
Put forth and feel a gladder clime." 



And murmurs of a deeper voice, 
Going before to some far shrine, 

Teach that sick heart the stronger choice, 
Till all thy life one way incline 
With one wide will that closes thine. 



And when the zoning eve has died 
Where you dark valleys wind forlorn. 

Come Hope and Memory, spouse and bride. 
From out the borders of the morn. 
With that fair child betwixt them born. 

6. 
And when no mortal motion jars 

The blackness round the tombing sod, 
Thro' silence and the trembling stars 



Comes Faith from tract.-, \,o feet hi. v trod 
And Virtue, like a household goci, 



Promising empire ; such as those 
That once at dead of night did greet 

Troy's wandering prince, so that he rose 
With sacrifice, while all the fleet 
Had rest by stony hills of Crete. 



SONG. 

Lady, let the rolling drums 
Beat to battle where thy warrior stands: 
Now thy face across his fancy comes. 

And gives the battle to his hands. 

Lady, let the trumpets blow. 
Clasp thy little babes about thy knee : 
Now their warrior father meets the foe, 

And strikes him dead for thine and thee. 



SONG. 

Home they brought him slain with spears. 

They brought him home at even-fall : 
All alone she sits and hears 

Echoes in his empty hall. 

Sounding on the morrow. 

The Sun peep'd in from open field. 
The boy began to leap and prance, 
Rode upon his father's lance. 

Beat upon his father's shield — 

"O hush, my joy, my sorrow." 



EXPERIMENTS. 



BOADICEA. 

While about the shore of Mona those Neronian legionaries 
Burnt and broke the grove and altar r)f the Druid and Druidess, 
Far in the E.tst Boadicea, standing loftily charioted. 
Mad and maddening all that heard her in her fierce volubility. 
Girt by half the tribes of Britaui, near the colony Camulodune, 
Yell'd and shriek'd between her daughters o'er a wild confederacy. 

"They that scorn the tribes and call us Britain's barbarous populaces, 
Did they hear me, would they listen, did they pity me supplicating ? 
Shall I heed them in their anguish.' shall I brook to be supplicated? 
Hear Icenian, Catieuclilanian, hear Coritanian, Trinobant ! 
Must their ever-ravening eag'e's beak and talon annihilate as? 
Tear the noble heart of Britain, leave it gorilv quivering? 
Bark an answer, Britain's raven I bark and blacken innumerable. 
Blacken round the Rom.in cuiion, make the carcass a skeleton. 
Kite and kestrel, wolf and wolfkin, from the wilderness, wallow in it, 
Till the face of Bel be brighteu'd, Taranis be propitiated. 
Lo their colony half-defended ! lo their colony, CAinulodune ! 
There the horde of Roman robbers mock at a barbarous adversary. 



BO A DICE A. 

There the hive of Roman liars worship a gluttonous emperor-idiot 
Such is Rome, and this her deity : hear it, Spirit of Cassivelaiin 1 

" Hear it, Gods ! the Gods have heard it, O Icenian, O Coritanian 1 
Doubt not ye the Gods have answer'd, Catieuchlanian, Trinobant, 
These have told us all their anger in miraculous utterances, 
Thunder, a flying fire in heaven, a murmur heard aerially. 
Phantom sound of blows descending, moan of an enemy massacred, 
Phantom wail of women and children, multitudinous agonies. 
Bloodily flow'd the Tamesa rolling phantom bodies of horses and men ; 
Then a phantom colony smoulder'd on the refluent estuary ; 
Lastly yonder yester-even, suddenly giddily tottering — 
There was one who watch'd and told me — down their statue- of Victory fell. 
Lo their precious Roman bantling, lo the colony Camulodune, 
Shall we teach it a Roman lesson? shall we care to be pitiful? 
Shall we deal with it as an infant ? shall we dandle it amorously ? 

" Hear Icenian, Catieuchlanian, hear Coritanian, Trinobant I 
While I roved about the forest, long and bitterly meditating. 
There I heard them in the darkness, at the mystical ceremony, 
Loosely robed in flying raiment, sang the terrible prophetesses. 
' Fear not, isle of blowing woodland, isle of silvery parapets 1 
Tho' the Roma^i eagle shadow thee, tho' the gathering enemy narrow thee, 
Thou shah wax and he shall dwindle, thou shalt be the mighty one yet 1 
Thine the liberty, thine the glory, thine the deeds to be celebrated, 
Thine the myriad-rolling ocean, light and shadow illimitable. 
Thine the lands of lasting summer, many-blossoming Paradises, 
Thine the North and thine the South and thine the battle-thunder of God.' 
So they chanted : how shall Britain light upon auguries happier? 
So they chanted in the darkness, and there cometh a victory now. 

" Hear Icenian, Catieuchlanian, hear Coritanian, Trinobant ! 
Me the wife of rich Prasutagus, me the lover of liberty, 
Me they seized and me they tortured, me they lash'd and humiliated. 
Me the sport of ribald Veterans, mine of ruffian violators ! 
See they sit, they hide their faces, miserable in ignominy ! 
Wherefore in me burns an anger, not by blood to be satiated. 
Lo the palaces and the temple, lo the colony Camulodiine ! 
There they ruled, and thence they wasted all the flounshmg territory, 
Thither at their will they haled the yellow-ringleted Britoness — 
Bloodily, bloodily fall the battle-axe, unexhausted, iiiexorable. 
Shout Icenian, Catieuchlanian, shout Coritanian, Trinobant, 
Till the victim hear within and yearn to hurry precipitously 
Like the leaf in a roaring whirlwind, like the smoke in a hurricane whirl'd. 
Lo the colonv, there they rioted in tlic city of Ciinobeh'ne? 
There they drank in cup's of emerald, there at tables of ebony lay. 
Rolling on their purple couches in their tender effeminacy. 
There they dwelt and there they rioted ; there —there— they dwell no more. 
Burst the gates, and burn the palaces, break the works of the statuary, 
Take the hoary Roman head and shatter it, hold it abomiv.able. 
Cut the Roman boy to pieces in his lust and voluptuousness. 
Lash the maiden into swooning, me they lash'd and humiliated, 
Chop the breasts from off the mother, dash the brains of the little one out. 
Up my Britons, on ray chariot, on my chargers, trample them under us." 

So the Queen Boadic^a, standing loftily charioted. 
Brandishing in her hand a dart and rolling glances lioness-like, 
Yelled and shrieked between her daughters in her fierce volubility. 
Till her people all around the royal chariot agitated, 
Madly dash'd the darts together, writhing barbarous lineaments. 
Made the noise of frosty woodlands, when they shiver in January, 
Roar'd as when the rolling breakers boom and blanch on the precipices, 
Vell'd as when the winds of winter tear an oak on a promontory. 
So the silent colony hearin.g her tumultuous adversaries 
Clash the darts and im the buckler beat with rapid unanimous hand. 
Thought on all her evil tyrannies, all her pitiless avarice. 
Till she felt the heart within her fall and flutter tremulously, 
Tlien her pulses at the clamoring of her enerav fainted away. 



TN QUANTITY. — SPECIMEN OF A TRANS LA TION. 

Out of evil evil flourishes, out of tyranny tyranny buds. 
Ran the land with Roman slaughter, multitudinous agonies. 
Perish'd many a maid and matron, many a valorous legionary. 
Fell the colony, city and citadel, Loudon, Verulam, Camulodune. 



IN QUANTITY. 



A leaks. 



O mighty-mouth'd inventor of ha-monies, 
O skill'd to sing of Time or liternity, 
God-gifted organ-voice of England, 

Millon, a name to resound for ages; 
Who-.e Titan angels, Gabriel, Abdiel, 
Starr'd from Jehovah's gorgeous armories, 
Tower, as the deep-domed empyrean 

Rings to the roar of an angel onset — 
Me ratlier all that bowery loneliness. 
The brooks of Eden mazily nurmurmg. 
And bloom profuse and cedar arches 
Charm, as a wandtre/ out in ocean. 
Where some refulgent sunstt ot India 
Streams o'er a rich ambros;.U ocean isle. 

And crimson-hued the stately palmwooda 
Whisper in odoroi.s heights of even. 



Hendecasyllabics. 

O vou chorus of indolent reviewers. 

Irresponsible, indolent reviewers, 

Look, I come to the test, a tiny poem 

All composed in a metre of Catullus, 

All in quantity, careful of my motion. 

Like the s'ater on ice that hardly bears him, 

Lest I fall unawares before the people. 

Waking laughter in indolent reviewers. 

Should I flounder awhile witnout a tumble 

Thro' this nietrification of Catullus, 

They should speak to me not without a welcome. 

All that chorus of indolent reviewers. 

Hard, hard, hard is it, only not to tumble. 

So fantastical is the dainty metre. 

Wherefore slight me not wholly, nor believe me 

Too presumptuous, indolent reviewers. 

C) blatant Magazines, regard me rather — 

Since I blush to belaud rryself a moment — 

As some rare little rose, a piece of inmost 

Horticultural art, or half cocue.'te-like 

Maiden, not to be greeted unb'inignly. 



SPECIMEN OF A TRANSLATION OF THE ILIAP 
IN BLANK VERSE. 

So Hector said, and sea like roar'd his host; 
Then loosed their sweating horses from tb- yoke 
And each beside his chariot bound his own ; 
And oxen from the city, and goodly sheep 
In haste they drove, and honey-hearted wine 
And bread from out the houses brought, and heap''.J 
Their firewood, and the winds from off the plain 



SPECIMEN OF A TRANS LA TION. 

Roll'd the rich vapor far into the heaven. 
And these all night upon the * bridge of war 
Sat glorying ; many a fire before them blazed : 
As when in heaven the stars about the moon 
Look beautiful, when all tlie winds are laid, 
And every height comes out, and jutting peak 
And valiey, and the immeasurable heavens 
Break open to their highest, and all the stars 
Shine, and the Shephurd gladdens in his heart : 
So many a fire between the ships and stream 
Of Xanthus blazed before the towers of Troy, 
A thousand on the plain ; and close by each 
Sat fifty in the blaze of burning fire ; 
And champing golden grain, the horses stood 
Hard by their chariots, waiting for iha dawn.t 

IliadWn. 542 -so«, 
• Or, ridge. 
t Or more literally, — 

And eating hoary grain and pulse the steeds 

Stood by their cars, waiting the throned uioin. 



THE HOLY GRAIL, 



AND OTHER POEMS. 



THE COMING OF ARTHUR. 

Leodogran, the King of Cameliard, 
Had one fair daughter, and none other child ; 
i And she was fairest of all flesh on earth, 
! Guinevere, and in her his one delight. 

I For many a petty kinc; ere Arthur came 

i Ruled in this isle, and ever waging war 
i Eich upon other, wasted all the land ; 
j And still from time to time the heathen host 
: Swarn\'d overseas, and harried what was left. 
And so there grew great tracts of wilderness, 
Wherein the beast was ever more and more, 
But man was less and less, till Arthur came. 
For first Aurelius lived and fought and died, 
And after him King Uther fouE;ht and died. 
But either fail'd to make the kmgdom one. 
And after these King Arthur for a space, 
And thro' the puissance of his Table Round, 
Drew all their petty princedoms under him, 
Their king and head, and made a realm, and 
reigu'd. 

And thus the land of Cameliard was waste. 
Thick with wet woods, and tnany a beast 

therein. 
And none or few to scare or chase the beast ; 
So that wild dog, and wolf and boar and bear 
Came night and day, and rooted in the fields. 
And wallow'd in the gardens of the king. 
And ever and anon the wolf would steal 
The children and devour, but now and then, 
Her own brood lost or dead, lent her fierce 

teat 
To human sucklings; and the children, 

boused 
In her foul den, there at their meat would 

growl. 
And mock their foster-mother on four feet. 
Till, straighten'd, they grew up to wolf-like 

men. 
Worse than the wolves. And King Leodo- 
gran 
Groan'd for the Roman legions here again, 
.•\nd C.-esar's eagle : then his brother king, 
Kience, assail'd him : last a heathen horde. 
Reddening the sun with smoke and earth 
^ with blood, 



And on the spike that split the mother's j 

heart | 

Spitting the child, brake on him, till, amazed, { 
He knew not whither he should turn for aid. 

But — for he heard of Arthur newly 

crown 'd, 
Tho' not without an uproar made by those 
Who cried, " He is not Uther's son " — the 

king 
Sent to him, saying, "Arise,and help us thou! 
For here between the man and beast we die." 

And Arthur yet had done no deed of arms, 
But heard the call, and came : and Guinevere 
Stood by the castle walls to v/atch him pass ; 
But since he neither wore on helm or shield 
The golden symbol of his kinglihood. 
But rode a simple knight among his knights, 
And many of these in richer arms than he, 
She saw him not, or mark'd not, if she saw. 
One among many, tho' his face was bare. 
But Arthur, looking downward as he past. 
Felt the light of her eyes into his life 
Smite on the sudden, yet rode on, andpitch'd 
His tents beside the forest. And he drave 
The heathen, and he slew the beast, and fell'd 
The forest, and let in the sun, and made 
Broad pathways for the hunterand the knight; 
And so return'd. 

For while he linger'd there, 
A doubt that ever smoulder'd in the hearts 
Of those great Lords and Barons of his realm 
Flash'd forth and into war : for most of the.se 
Made head against him, crying, " Who is he 
That he should rule us? who hath proven 

him 
King Uther's son ? for lo ! we look at him. 
And find nor face nor bearing, limbs nor 

voice, 
Are like to those of Uther whom we knew. 
This is the son of GorloVs, not the king; 
This is the son of Anton, not the king." 

And Arthur, passing thence to battle, felt 
Travail, and throes and agonies of the life. 
Desiring to be join'd with Guinevere ; 
And thinking as he rode, " Her father said 



h 



246 



THE COMING OF ARTHUR. 



That tliere between the man and beast they 

die. 
Shall I not lift her from this land of beasts 
Up to my throne, and side by side with me? 
Wliat happiness to reign a lonely king, 
Vext — O ye stars that shudder over me, 

earth that soundest lioUow under me, 
Text with waste dreams? for saving 1 be 

join'd 
To her that is the fairest under heaven, 

1 seem as nothing in the mighty world, 
And cannot will my will, nor work my work 
WlioUy, nor make myself in mine own realm 
Victor and lord. But were 1 ioin'dwith her, 
Then might we live together as one li!e. 
And reigning with one will in everything 
Have power on this dark land to ligluen it. 
And power on this dead world to make it 

live." 

And Arthur from the field of battle sent 
Ulfius, and Brasiias, and Bedivere, 
His new-made knights, to King Leodogran, 
Saying, " If I in anglit have served ihee well. 
Give me thy daughter Guinevere to wife." 

Whom when he heard, Leodogran in heart 
Debating — " How should 1 that am a king. 
However much he holp me at my need, 
Give my one daughter saving to a king, 
And a king's son'' — lifted his voice, andcall'd 
A hoary man, his chamberlain, to whom 
He trusted all things, and of him required 
His counsel : " Knowest thou aught of Ar- 
thur's birth ? " 

Then spake the hoary chamberlain and 

said, 
" Sir king, there be but two old men that 

know : 
And each is twice as old as I ; and one 
Is Merlin, the wise man that ever served 
King Uther thro' his magic art ; and one 
Is Merlin's master (so they call him) Hieys, 
Who taught him magic ; but the scholar ran 
Bei'ore the master, and so far, that Bleys 
Laid magic by, and sat him down, and wrote 
All things and whatsoever Merlin did 
In one great annal-book, where after-years 
Will learn the secret of our Arthur's birth." 

To whom the King Leodogran replied, 
" O friend, had I been holpen half as well 
By this King Arthur as by thee to-day. 
Then beast and man had had their share of 

me : 
But summon here before ns yet once more 
Ulfius, and Brastias, and Bedivere." 

Then, when they came before him, the 

king said, 
" I have seen the cuckoo chased by lesser 

fowl, _ 
And reason in the chase : but wherefore now 
Do tliese your lords stir up the heat of war, 
Some calling Arthur born of Gorloi's, 
Others of Anton ? Tell me, ye yourselves, 
Hold ye this Arthur for King Uther's son ? " 






And Ulfius and Brastias answer'd, " Ay.* 
Then Bedivere, the first of all his knights 
Knighted, by Arthur at his crowning, 

spake — 
For bold in heart and act and word was he, 
Whenever slander breathed against the 

king — 

" Sir, there be many rumors on this head : 
For there be those who hate him in their 

hearts. 
Call him baseborn, and since his ways are 

sweet, 
And theirs are bestial, hold him less than 

man : 
And there be those who deem him more than 

man, 
And dream he dropt from heaven : but my 

belief 
In all this matter — so ye care to learn — 
Sir, for ye know that in King Uther's time 
The prince and warrior Gorlois, he that held 
'I'lntagei castle by the Cornish sea, 
Was wedded with a winsome wife, Ygerne : 
And daughters had she borne him, — one 

whereof 
Lot's wife, the Queen of Orkney, Bellioent, 
Hath ever like a loyal sister cleaved 
To Arthur, — but a ?on she had not borne. 
And Uther cast upon her eyes of love: 
I'ut she, a stainless wife to Gorlois, 
So loathed the bright dishonor of his love. 
That Gorlois and King Ulher went to war : 
Ai;d overthrown was Gorlois and slain. 
Then Uther in his wrath and heat besieged 
Ygerne within Tintagel, where her men. 
Seeing the mighty swarm about their walls, 
Left her and fled, and Uther enter'd in, 
And there was none to call to but himself. 
So, compass'd by the power of the king, 
Enforced she was to wed him in her tears. 
And with a shameful swiftness : afterward. 
Not many moons, King Uther died him- 
self 
Moaning and wailing for an heir to rule 
After him, lest the realm should go to wrack. 
And that same night, the night of the new 

year, 
By reason of the bitterness and grief _ 
That vext his mother, all before his time 
Was Arthur born, and all as soon as born 
Deliver'd at a secret jiostem-gate 
To Merlin, to be holden far apart 
Until his hour should come ; because the 

lords 
Of that fierce day were as the lords of this. 
Wild beasts, and surely would have torn the 

child 
Piecemeal among them, had they known ; for 

each 
But sought to rule for hisow.i self and hand. 
And many hated Uther for the sake 
Of Gorlois. Wherefore Merlin took thechild. 
And gave him to Sir Anton, an old knight 
And ancient friend of Ulher ; and his wife 
Nursed the young prince, and rear'd him 

with her own ; 
And no man knew. And ever since the lords 



THE COMING OF ARTHUR. 



Have fougliten like wild beasts among them- 
selves, 
So that the realm has gone to wrack : but 

now, 
This year, when Merlin (for his hour had 

come) 
Brought Arthur forth, and set him in the hall. 
Proclaiming, ' Here is Uther's heir, your 

king,' 
A lunidred voices cried, ' Away with him ! 
No king of ours ! a son of Gorlois he. 
Or else the child of Anton, and no king, 
Or else baseborn.' Yet Merlin thro' his 

craft. 
And while the people clamor'd for a king. 
Had Arthur crown'd ; but after, the great 

lords 
Banded, and so brake out in open war." 

Then while the king debated with himself 
If Arthur were the child of shamefulness. 
Or born the son of Gorlois, after death, 
Or Uther's son, and born before his time. 
Or whether there were truth in anything 
Snid by tliese three, there came to Cameliard, 
With Gawain and young Modred, her two 

sons, 
Lot's wife, the Queen of Orkney, Bellicent ; 
Whom as he could, not as he would, the king 
Made feast for, saying, as they sat at meat, 

"A doubtful throne is ice on summer seas — 
Ye come from Arthur's court : think ye this 

king — 
So few his knights, however brave they be — 
Hath body enow to beat his foemen down ? " 

"O king," she cried, "and I will tell 
thee : few, 
Few, but all brave, all of one mind with him ; 
For I was near him when the savage yells 
Of Uther's peerage died, and Arthur sat 
Crown'd on tJie dais, and his warriors cried, 
' lie thou tlie king, and we will work thy will 
Who love thee.' Then the king in low, deep 

tones. 
And simple words of great authority, 
i'i liind them by so strait vows to his own self, 
riiat when they rose, knighted from kneel- 
ing, some 
Were pale as at the passing of a ghost. 
Some ilush'd, and others dazed, as one who 

uakes 
Half blinded at the coming of a light. 



" But when he spake and cheer'd his Table 

Round 
ith large divine and comfortable words 
:yond my tongue to tell thee— I beheld 
in; eye to eye thro' all their (Jrder tlash 
momentary likeness of the king : 
id ere it left their faces, thro' the ci-oss 
d those around it and the Crucilied, . 
i A n from the casement over Arthur, smote 
inie-color, vert and azure, in three rays, 
I'j falling upon each of three fair queens, 
ho stood in silence near his throne, the 

friends 



t 



Of Arthur, gaznig on hnn, ta.-n jv,.!, ),„„, 

Sweet faces, who will help him S.!^, . • ^"^ 

^ ^t his nee4,^ 

" And there I saw mage Merlin, v, / 
vast wit **> 

And hundred winters are but as the hands 
Of loyal vassals toiling for their liege. 

" And near him stood the Lady of the 

Lake, 
Who knows a subtler magic than his own — 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful. 
She gave the king his huge cross-hiked 

sword, 
Whereby to drive the heathen out : a mist 
Of incense curl'd about her, and her face 
Wellnigh was hidden in the minster gloom ; 
But there was heard among the holy hymns 
A voice as of the waters, for she dwells 
Down in a deep, calm, whatsoever storms 
May shake the world, and when the surface 

rolls, 
Hath power to walk t'ne waters like our Lord. 

" There likewise I beheld Excalihur 
Before him at his crowning borne, the sword 
That rose from out the bosom of the lake. 
And Arthur row'd across and took it — rich 
With jewels, elfin Urim, on the hilt. 
Bewildering heart and eye — the blade so 

bright 
That men are blinded by it — on one side. 
Graven in the oldest tongue of all this world, 
' Take me,' but turn the blade and you shall 

see. 
And written in the speech ye speak yourself, 
' Cast me away \ ' and sad was Arthur's face 
Taking it, but old Merlin counsell'd him, 
'Take thou and strike! the time to cast 

away 
Is yet far-off.' So this great brand the king 
Took, and by this will beat his foemen down." 

Thereat Leodogran rejoiced, but thought 
To sift his doubtings to the last, and ask'd, 
Fixing full eyes of question on her face, 
" The swallow and the swift are near akin, 
r-?ut thou art closer to this noble prince, 
Being his own dear sister " ; and she said, 
" Daughter of Gorlois and Ygerne am I " ; 
"And therefore. Arthur's sister," asked ths 

King. 
She answer'd, " These be secret things," 

and*ign'd 
To those two sons to pass and let them be. 
And Gawain went, and breaking into song 
.Sprang out, and follow'd by his flying hair 
Ran like a colt, and leapt at all he saw : 
But Modred laid his ear beside the doors. 
And there half heard ; the same that after- 
ward 
Struck for the throne, and striking found his 
doom. 

And then the Queen made answer," What 
know [ ? 
For dark my mother was in eyes and hair. 
And dark in hair and eyes am I ; and dark 



246 



THE COMING OF ARTHUR. 



Tliat there be/yea and dark was Uther too, 

die- lo blackness ; but iliis king is fair 
Shall I J the race of Britons and of men. 
Up tfeover always in my mind I hear 
'Vli'cry from out the dawning of my life, 
A mother weeping, and I hear her say, 
' O that ye had some brother, pretty one. 
To guard thee on the rough ways of the 
world.' " 

" Ay," said the King, " and hear ye such 
a cry ? 
But when did Arthur chance upon thee first? ' 

" O king ! " she cried, " and I will tell thee 

true : 
He found me first when yet a little maid ; 
Beaten I had been for a iiltle fault 
Whereof I was not guilty ; and out I ran 
And flung myself down on a bank of heath. 
And hated this fair world and a!i tlKrein, 
And wept, and wish'd thai 1 were dead ; and 

he — 
I know not whether of himself he came, 
Or brought by Menin, who, ihey say, tan 

walk 
Unseen at pleasure — he was at my side, 
And spake sweet words, and comtorteu jiiy 

heart. 
And dried my tears, bviing a child wiih me. 
And many a time lu came, and evtrmore 
As I grew greater grew \\i h me ; and sad 
-At times he seejii'd, and sad with him was I, 
Stern too at limes, and then 1 loved him not. 
But sweet again, and then I loved him well. 
And now of late I see him less and less. 
But those first days had gO:den hours for 

me, 
For then I surely thought he would be king. 

" But let me tell thee now another tale : 
For Bleys, our Merlin's master, as they say, 
Died but of late, and sent his cry to me, 
To hear him speak before he left his iife. 
Shrunk like a fairy changeling lay the mage, 
And when I enter'd told me that himself 
And Merlin ever served about the king, 
U.her, before he died, and on the night 
When Uther in Tintage! past away 
Moaning and wailing for an heir, the two 
Left the still king, and passing forth to 

breathe, 
Then from the castle gateway by the chasm 
Descending thro' the dismal night* — a night 
In which the bounds of heaven and earth 

were lost — 
Beheld, so high upon the dreary deeps 
It seem'd in heaven, a ship, the shape 

thereof 
A dragon wing'd, and all from stem to stern 
Bright with a shining people on the decks, 
And gone as soon as seen : and then the two 
Dropt to the cove, and watch'd the great sea 

fall, 
Wave after wave, each mightier than the last, 
Till last, a ninth one, gathering half the deep 
And full ..f v.MO's, slmvlv r.i.c an..! plim-ed 
Roaring, .iiul .ill the wavr ^^.l^ ni a llaDie : 



' And down the wave and in the flame was 

boine 
A naked babe, and rode to Merlin's feet, 
Who stoopt and caught the babe, and cried, 

' The King I 
Here is an heir for Uther ! ' and the fringe 
Of that great breaker, sweeping up the strand, 
Lash'd at the wizard as he spake the word, 
And all at once all round hiin rose in fire, 
.So that the child and he were clothed in fire. 
And presently thereat'ter follow'd calm. 
Free sky and stars : 'And this same child,' he 

said, 
' Is he who reigns ; nor could I part in peace 
1 "11 'his were told.' And saying this the seer 
Went thro' the strait and dreadful pass of 

death, 
Not ever to Ije question'd any more 
Save rn the further side ; but when I met 
Merlin, and ask'd him if these things were 

ti:uh — 
The shininj- dragon and the naked child 
Desceiidii.g in the glory of the seas — 
He lai'ph'd ai' is his wont, and answer'd me 
In riddling triplets of old time, and said ; 

" ' Rain, rain, and sun ! a rainbow in the 
sky ! 
A yoni^g man will be wiser by and by ; 
An old man's w"t may wander ere he die. 
Rain, rain, and sun! a rainbow on the 
lea! 
And truth is this to me, and that to thee ; 
And truth or clothed or naked let it be. 
Rain, sun, and rain 1 and the free blossom 
blows : 
Sun, rain, and sun ! and where is he who 

knows? 
From the great deep to the great deep he 
goes.' 

" So Merlin riddling angtr'd n'e : but thou 
Fear not to give this king thi'ie orly child, 
Guinevere : so great bards of Mm will sing 
Hereafter ; and dark sayings fnm of old 
Hanging and ringing thro' the minds of men, 
And ecl'.o'd by old folk beside their fir?s 
For coinfort after their wage-work is done, 
Speak of the king ; and Merlin in our tiire 
Hath spoken also, not in jest, and sworn 
Tho' men may wound him that he will not di<H 
But pass, again to cume ; and then or now 
Utterly smite the heathen underfoot, 
Till these and all men hail him for their king.' 

She spake and King Leodogran rejoiced, 
But musing " Shall I answer yea or nay ? " 
Doubted and drowsed, nodded and slept, 

and saw, 
Dreaming, a slope of land that ever grew, 
l"'ieid afier fie.d, up to a height, the i)eak 
Haze-hidden, and thereon a phantom king, 
Now looming, and now lost ; and on theslojie 
1 he sword rose, the hind fell, the herd was 

driven, 
Fire glimpsed ; and all the land from roof 



In drill 



wind. 



THE HOLY GRAIL. 



Stream'd to th» peak, and mingled witli the 

haze 
And made it thicker; while- ihe phantom 

king 

Sent ont at times a voice ; and here or there 
Stood one who pointed toward the voice, the 

rest 
Slew on and burnt, crying, " No king of ours, 
No son of Uther, and no king of ours" ; 
Till with a wink his dream was changed, the 

haze 
Descended, and the solid earth became 
As luuhiiig, and the king stood out in heaven, 
Crown'd. And Leodogran awoke, and sent 
Ulfius, and lirastias and Bedivere, 
Back to the court of Arthur answering yea. 

Then Arthur charged his warrior whom he 

loved 
And honor'd most. Sir Lancelot, to ride 

forth 
And bring the Queen; — and watch'd him 

from the gates : 
And Lancelot past away among the flowers, 
(Kor then was latter April) and return'd 
.Among the flowers, in May, with Guinevere. 
'I'll whom arrived, by Dubrlc the high saint, 
Chief of the church in Britain, and before 
The stateliest of her altar-shrines, the king 
'I'hat morn was married, while in stainless 

white, 
The fair beginners of a nobler time. 
And glorying in their vows and him, his 

knights 
Stood round him, and rejoicing in his joy. 
And holy Dubric spread his hands and spake, 
" Reign ye, and live and love, and make the 

world 
Other, and may thy Queen be one with thee, 
And all this Order of thy Table Round 
Fulfil the boundless purpose of their king." 

Then at the marriage feast came in from 

Rome, 
The slowly-fading mistress of the world, 
Great lords, who claim'd the tribute as of 

yore. 
But Arthur spake, " Behold, for these have 

sworn 
To fight my wars, and worship me their king ; 
The old order changeth, yielding place to 

new ; 
And we that fight for our fair father Christ, 
Seeing that ye be grown too weak and old 
To drive the heathen from your Roman wall. 
No tribute will we pay": so those great 

lords 
Drew back in wrath, and Arthur strove with 

Rome. 

And Arthur and his knighthood for a space 
Were all one will, and thro' that strength the 

king 
Drew in the petty princedoms under him, 
Fought, and in twelve great battles over- 
came 
The heathen hordes, and made a realm and 
reign'd. 



THE HOLY GRAIL. 

From noiseful arms, and acts of prowess 

done 
In tournament or tilt, Sir Percivale, 
Whom Arthur and his knighthood call'd The 

Pure. 
Had pass'd into the silent life of prayer, 
Praise, fast, and alms ; and leaving for the 

cowl 
The helmet in an abbey far away 
From Camelot, there, and not long after, 

died. 

And one, a fellow-monk among the rest, 
.-\mbrosius, loved hiin much beyond the rest, 
And honor'd him, and wrought into his heart 
A way by love that waken'd love within, 
To answer that which came : and as ihey sat 
Beneath a world-old yew-tree, darkening half 
The cloisters, on a gustful April morn 
That puffd the swaying branches into smoke 
Above them, ere the summer when he died, 
The monk Ambrosius question'd Percivale : 

" O brother, I have seen this yew-tree 

smoke, 
Spring after spring, for half a hundred years : 
For never have 1 known the world without, 
Nor ever stray'd beyond the pale : but thee. 
When first thou camest — • such a courtesy 
Spake thro' the limbs and in the voice — I 

knew 
For one of those who eat in Arthur's hall ; 
For good ye are and bad, and like to coins, 
Some true, some light, but every one of you 
Stamp'd with the image of the King; and now 
Tell me, what drove thee from the Table 

Round, 
My brother ? was it earthly passion crost ? " 

" Nay," said the knight ; " for no such 

passion mine. 
But the sweet vision of the Holy Grail 
Drove me from all vainglories, rivalries. 
And earthly heats that spring and sparkle out 
Among us in the jousts, while women watch 
Who wins, who falls ; and waste the spiritual 

strength 
Within us, better offer'd up to Heaven." 

To whom the monk : " The Holy Grail ! — 
I trust 
We are green in Heaven's eyes ; but here too 

much 
We moulder — as to things without I mean- 
Yet one of your own knights, a guest of ours. 
Told us of this in our refectory. 
Rut spake with such a sadness and so low 
We heard not half of what he said. What is it? 
The phantom of a cup that comes and goes?" 

" Nay, monk ! what phantom ? " answer'd 
Percivale, 
"The cup. the cup Itself, from which our Lord 
Drank at the last sad supper with his own. 
This, from the blessed landof Aromat — 
After the day of darkness, when the dead 



25° 



THE HOLY GRAIL. 



Went wandering o'er Moriah — the good 

saint, 
Ariiiiathajan Joseph, journeying brought 
To Glastonbury, where tlie winter tliorn 
Blossoms at Christmas, mindful of our Lord. 
And there awhile it bode ; and if a man 
Could touch or see it, he was heal'd at once, 
By faith, of all his ills. But then the times 
Grew to such evil that the holy cup 
Was caught away to Heaven, and disap- 

pear'd." 

To wliom the monk : " From our old books 

I know 
That Joseph came of old to Glastonbury, 
And there the heathen Prince, Arviragus, 
Gave him an isle of marsh whereon to build. 
And there he built with wattles from the 

marsh 
A little lonely church in days of yore, 
Forso they say, these books of ours, but seem 
Mute of this miracle, far as I have read. 
But who first saw the holy thing to-day ?" 

" A woman," answer'd Percivale, " a nun, 
And one no further off in blood imm me 
Than sister ; and if ever holy maid 
With knees of adoration wore the stone, 
A holy niaid ; tho' never maiden glow'd, 
But that was in her earlier maidenhood. 
With such a fervent flame of hiunan love. 
Which beingrudelybl-unted, glanced and shot 
v,:jly 10 holy things : to prayer and praise 
She gave herself, to fast and alms. And yet. 
Nun as she was, the scandal of the Court, 
Sin against Arthur and the Table Round, 
And the strange sound of an adulterous race, 
Across the iron grating of her cell 
Beat, and she pray'd and fasted all the more. 

"And he to whom she toldher sins, orwliat 
Her all but utter whiteness held for sin, 
A man wellnigh a hundred winter.s old. 
Spake often with her of the Holy Grail, 
A legend handed down thro' five or six. 
And each of these a hundred winters old, 
From our Lord's time. And when King Ar- 
thur made 
His Table Round, and all men's hearts be- 
came 
Clean for a season, surely he had thought 
That now the Holy Grail would come again : 
But sin broke out. Ah, Christ, that it would 

come, 
And heal the world of all their wickedness ! 
' O Father ! ' asked the maiden, ' might it 

come 
To me by prayer and fasting ? ' ' Nay,' said 

he, 
' I know not, for thy heart is pure as snow.' 
And so she pray'd and fasted, till the sun 
Shone, and the wind blew, thro' her, and I 

thought 
She might have risen and floated when I saw 
her. 

" For on a day she sent to speak with me. 
And when she came to speak, behold her eyes 



Beyond my knowing of them, beautiful, 
lieyond all knowing of theui, wonderful, 
Heautiful in the light of holiness. 
And 'U my brutlier, Percivale,' she said, 
' Sweet brother, I have seen the Holy Grail : 
For, waked at dead of night, I heard a sound 
As of a silver horn from o'er the hills 1 

Blown, and I thought, " It is not Arthur's use ■. 
To hunt by moonlight"; and the slender * 

sound \ 

As from a distance beyond distance grew j 
Coming upon me — O never harp nor horn, j 
Nor aught we blow with breath, or touch | 

with hand, | 

Was like that music as it came ; and then 
Stream'd thro' my cell a cold atid silver 

beam, 
And down the long beam stole the Holy 

Grail, 
Rose-red with beatings in it, as if alive, 
Till all the white walls of my cell were dyed 
With rosy colors leaping on the wall ; 
And then the music faded, and the Grail 
Pass'd, and the beam decay'd, and Irom the 

walls 
The rosy quiverings died into the night. 
So now the Holy Thing is here again 
Among us, brother, fast thou too and pray, 
And tell thy brother knights to fast and pray, 
That so perchance the vision may be seen 
By thes and those, and all the world be 

heal'd.' 

"Then leaving the pale nun, I spake of this 
To all men ; and myself fasted and pray'd 
Always, and many among us many a week 
Fasted and pray'd even to the uttermost, 
Expectant of the wonder that would be. 

" And one there was among us, ever moved 
Among us in white armor, Galahad. 
'God make thee good as thou art beautiful,' 
Said Arthur, when he dubb'd him knight; 

and none. 
In so youn.g youth, was ever made a knight 
Till Galahad ; and this Galahad, when he 

heard I 

My sister's vision, fill'd me with amaze ; \ 
His eyes became so like her own, they ! 

seem'd i 

Hers, and himself her brother more than I. | 

" Sister or brother none had he ; but some j 
Call'd him a son of Lancelot, and some said I 
Begotten by enchantment — chatterers they, j 
Like birds of passage piping up and down, j 
That gape for flies — we know not whence j 
they come ; j 

For when was Lancelot wanderingly lewd? j 

" But she, the wan sweet maiden shore j 

away ■ 

Clean from her forehead all that wealth of hair I 

Which made a silken mat-work for her feet ; J 
And out of this she plaited broad and long | 
A strong sword-belt, and wove with silver 

thrcid 
i\iKl crluisun in the belt a strange device, 



THE nOI.V GRAIL. 



2SI 



A crimson .i;rnil within a silver beam ; 

And saw the bright boy-knight, and bound 

it on him. 
Saying, ' My Icnight, my love, tny knight of 

heaven, 
O thou, my love, whose love is one with mine, 
I, maiden, round thee, maiden, bnid my 

belt. 
Go forth, foi thou shalt see what I have seen. 
And break thro' all, till one will crown thee 

king 
Far in the spiritual city ' : and as she spake 
She sent the deathless passion in her eyes 
Thro' him, and made him hers, and laid her 

mind 
On him, and he believed in her belief. 

" Then came a year of miracle : O brother, 
In our great hall there stood a vacant chair, 
Fashion'd by Meilin ere he past away. 
And carven with strange figures ; and in and 

out 
The figures, like a serpent, ran a scroll 
Of letters in a tongue \\a man could read. 
And Merlin call'd it ' The Siege perilous,' 
Perilous for good and ill ; " for there,' he said, 
* No man could sit but he should lose him- 
self : 
And once by misadvertence Merlin sat 
In his own chair, and so was Inst ; but he, 
Galahad, when he heard of Merlin's doom, 
Cried, ' If I lose myself I save myself! ' 

" Then on a summer night it came to pass, 
While the great banquet lay along the hall. 
That Galahad would sit down iu Merlin's 
chair. 

" And all at once, as there we sat, we heard 
A cracking and a riving of the roofs. 
And rending, and a blast, and overhead 
Thunder, and in the thunder was a cry. 
And in the blast there smote along the hall 
A beam of light seven times more clear than 

day: 
And down the long beam stole the Holy Grail 
All over cover'd with a luminous cloud. 
And none might see who bire it, and it past. 
But every knight beheld his fellow's face 
As in a glory, and all the knights arose. 
And staring each at other like dumb men 
Stood, till I found a voice and sware a vow. 

" I sware a vow before them all, that I, 
Because I had not seen the Grail, would ride 
A twelvemonth and a day in quest of it, 
Until I found and saw it, as the nun 
My sister saw it ;and Galahad sware the vow. 
And good Sir Bors, our Lancelot's cousin, 

sware. 
And Lancelot sware, and many among the 

knights. 
And Gawain sware, and louder than the rest." 

Then spake the monk Ambrosius, asking 
him, 
'•* What said the king ? Did Arthur take the 
vow? " 



" Nay, for my lord," said Percivale, "the 

King 
Was not in hall : for early that same day, 
'Scaped thro' a cavern from a bandit hold, 
An outraged maiden sprang into the halv 
Crying on help : for all her shining hair 
Was smear'd with earth, and either milky 

arm 
Red-rent with hooks of bramble, and all she 

wore 
Torn as a sail that leaves the rope is torn 
In tempest : so the King arose and went 
To smoke the scandalous hive of those wild 

bees 
That made such honey in his realm. Howbeit 
Some little of this marvel he too saw. 
Returning o'er the plain that then began 
To darken under Camelot ; whence the King 
Look'd np, calling aloud, ' Lo there ! the 

roofs 
Of our great Hall are rolled in thunder- 
smoke ! 
Pray Heaven, they be not smitten by the 

bolt.' 
For dear to Arthur was that hall of ours. 
As having there so oft with all his knights 
Feasted, and as the stateliest under heaven. 

" O brother, had you known our mighty 

h.ill, 
Which Merlin built for Arthur long ago! 
For all the sacred mount of Camelot, 
And all the dim rich city, roof by roof. 
Tower after tower, spire beyond spire. 
By grove, and garden-lawn, and rushing 

brook. 
Climbs to the mighty hall that Merlin built. 
And four great zones of sculpture, set betwixt 
Willi many a mystic symbol, gird the hall : 
.And in the lowest beasts are slaying men. 
And in the second men are slaying beasts. 
And on the third are warriors, perfect men. 
And on the fourth are men with growing 

wings. 
And over all one statue in the mould 
Of Arthur, made by Merlin, with a crown. 
And peak'd wings pointed to the Northern 

Star. 
And eastward fronts the statue, and the crown 
And both the wings are made of gold, and 

flame 
At sunrise till the people in far fields. 
Wasted so often by the heathen hordes. 
Behold it, crying, ' We have still a king.' 

" And, brother, had you known our hall 

within. 
Broader and higher than any in all the lands ! 
Where twelve great windows blazon Arthur's 

wars. 
And all the light that falls upon the board 
Streams thro' the twelve great battles of our 

King. 
Nay, one there is, and at the eastern end. 
Wealthy with wandering lines of mount and 

mere, 
Where Arthur finds the brand, Excalibur. 
And also one to the west, and counter to it. 



252 



THE HOLY GRAIL. 



And blank : and who shall blazon it? when 
and how ? — 

there, percliance, when all our wars are 

done. 
The brand Excalibur will be cast away. 

" So to this hall full quickly rede the King, 
In horror lest the work by Merlin wrought, 
Dreamlike, should on the sudden vanish, 

wrapt 
In unremorseful folds of rolling fire. 
And in he rode, and up I glanced, and saw 
The golden dragon sparkling over all : 
And many of those who burnt the hold, their 

arms 
Hack'd, and their foreheads grimed with 

smoke, and sear'd, 
Follow'd, and in among bright faces, ours. 
Full of the vision, prest : and then ihe King 
Spake to me, being nearest, ' Percivale, 
(Because the hall wa.s all in tumult — some 
Vowing, and some protesting,) ' what is this ?' 

" O brother, when I told him what had 

chanced, 
My sister's vision, and the rest, his face 
Darkeiv'd, as I have seen it more than once. 
When some brave deed seem'd to be done in 

vain, 
Darken ; and ' Woe is me, my knights ! ' he 

cried, 
' Had 1 been here, ye had not sworn the vow.' 
Bold was mine answer, ' Had thyself been 

liere. 
My King, thou wouldst have sworn.' ' Yea, 

yea,' said he, 
'Art thou so bold and hast not seen the 

Grail?' 

" ' Nay, Lord, I heard the sound, I saw 
the light. 
But since I did not ."lee the Holy Thing, 

1 sware a vow to follow it till I saw.* 

" Then when he asked us,knight by knight, 

if any 
Had seen it, all their answers were as one : 
* Nay, Lord, and therefore h.tve we sworn 

our vows.' 

" ' Lo now,' said Arthur, ' have ye seen a 
cloud ? 
What go ye into the wildeniess to see ? ' 

" Then Galahad on the sudden, and in a 
voice 
Shrilling along the hall to Arthur, call'd, 
' But L Sir Arthur, saw the Holy Grail, 
I saw the Holy Grail and heard a cry — 
O Galahad, and O Galahad, follow me.' 

" ' Ah, Galahad, Galahad,' said the King, 
' for such 
As thou art is the vision, not for these. 
Thy holy nun and thou have seen a sign — 
Holier is none, my Percivale, than she — 
A sign to maim this Order which I made. 
But you, that follow but the leader's bell,' 



( Brother, the kingwas hard upon his knights,) 
' Taliessin is our fullest throat of sons. 
And one hath suno; and all ihe dumb will f ing. 
Lancelot is Lancelot, and hath overborne 
Five knights at once, and every younger 

knight, 
Unproven, holds himself as Lancelot, 
Till overborne by one, he leams — and ye. 
What are ye? Galahads? — no, nor Perci- 

vales ' 
(For thus it pleased the King to range me 

close 
After Sir Galahad) ; ' nay,' said he, ' but men 
With strength and will to right the wrong'd, 

of power 
To lay the sudden heads of violence flat. 
Knights that in twelve great battles splash'd 

and dyed 
The strong White Horse in his own heathen 

blood — 
But one hath seen, and all the blind will see. 
Go, since your vows are sacred, being made: 
Yet — for ye know the cries of all my realm. 
Pass thro' this hall — how often, O my knights. 
Your places being vacant at my side. 
This chance of noble deeds will come and go 
Unchallenged, while you follow wandering 

fires 
Lost in the quagmire ? many of you, yea most, 
Return no more: ye think 1 show myself 
Too dark a prophet : come now, let us meet 
The morrow mom once more in one full 

field 
Of gracious pastime, that once more the king, 
Before you leave him for this Quest, may 

count 
The yet-unbroken strength of all his knights. 
Rejoicing in that Order which he made.' 

" So when the sun broke next from under- 
ground. 
All the great table of our Arthur closed 
And clash'd in such a tourney and so full. 
So many lances broken — never yet 
HadCamelotseen the like,since Arlhurcame; 
And I myself and Galahad, for a strength 
Was in us from the vision, overthrew 
So many knights that all the people cried, 
And almost burst the barriers in their heat, 
Shouting ' Sir Galahad and Sir Percivale I ' 

" But when the next day brake from under- 
ground — 
O brother, had you known our Camelot, 
Built by old kings, ace after age, so old 
The king himself had fears that it would fall. 
So strange, and rich, and dim ; for where the 

roofs 
Totter'd toward each other in the sky. 
Met foreheads all along the street of those 
Who watch'd us pass ; and lower, and where 

the long 
Rich galleries, lady-laden, weigh'd the necks 
Of dragons clinging to the crazy walls, 
'I'hicker than drops from thunder, showers of 

flowers 
Fell as we past ; and men and boys astride 
On wyvern, lion, dragon, grit^in, swan. 



THE HOLY GRAIL. 



253 



At all the corners, nnmed us eacli by name. 
Calling ' God speed ! ' but in the street below 
The knights aud ladies wept, and rich and 

poor 
Wept, and the King himself could hardly 

For grief, and in the middle street the 
Queen, 

Who rode by Lancelot, wail'd and shnek d 
aloud, 

' This madness has come on us for our sins. 

And then we reach'd the weirdly sculptured 
gate, 

Where Arthur's wars were render'd mysti- 
cally, 

And thence departed every one his way. 

" And I was lifted up in heart, and thought 
Of all my late-shown prowess in the lists, 
How my strong lance had beaten down the 

knights. 
So many and famous names ; and never yet 
Had heaven appear'd so blue, nor earth so 
green, 
j For all my blood danced in me, and I knew 
Tliat I should light upon the Holy Grail. 

"Thereafter, the dark warning of our King, 
That most of us would follow wanderiuglires. 
Came like a driving gloom across my mind. 
Then every evil word 1 had spoken once. 
And every evil thought I had thought of old, 
And every evil deed I ever did. 
Awoke and cried, 'This Quest is not forthee.' 
And lifting up mine eyes, I foinid myself 
Alone, and in a land of sand and thorns. 
And I was thirsty even unto de.ith ; 
And 1, too, cried, 'This Quest is not for thee.' 

" And on I rode, and when I thought my 

thirst 
Would slay me, saw deep lawns, and then a 

brook. 
With one sliarp rapid, where the crisping 

white 
Play'd ever back upon the sloping wave. 
And took both ear and eye ; and o'er the 

brook 
Were apple-trees, and apples by the brook 
Fallen, and on the lawns, ' I will rest here,' 
I said, ' I am not worthy of the Quest ' ; 
But even while I drank the brook, and ate 
The goodly apples, all these things at once 
Fell into dust, and I was left alone, 
j And thirsting, in a land of sand and thorns. 

" And then behold a woman at a door 
Spinning; and fair the house wherebyshe sat, 
And kind the woman's eyes and innocent. 
And all her bearing gracious ; and she rose 
Opening her arms to meet me, as who should 

say, 
' Rest here ' ; but when I touched her, lo ! 

she, too. 
Fell into dust and nothing, and the house 
ii::ca:ne no better than a broken shed, 
A'.id in it a dead balie ; and also this 
Fell into dust, and I was left alone. 



" And on I rode, and greater was my thirst. 
Then Hash'd a yellow gleam across the world, 
And where it smote the ploughshare in the 

field. 
The ploughman left his ploughing, and fell 

down 
Before it ; where it glitter'd on her pail. 
The milkmaid left her milking, and tell down 
Before it, and I knew not why, but thought 
' The sun is rising,' tho' the sun had risen. 
Then was I ware of one that on me moved 
In golden armor with a crown of gold 
About a casque all jewels ; and his horse 
In golden armor jewell'd everywhere : 
And on the splendor came, flashing me blind; 
Andseem'd to me the Lord of all the world, 
Being so huge. But v/hen 1 thought he meant 
To crush me, moving on me, lo ! he, too. 
Opened his arms to embrace me as he came, 
And up 1 went and touch'd hii-.i, and he, too, 
tell into dust, and I was left alone 
And wearying in a land of sand and thorns. 

" And I rode on and found a mighty hill, 
And on the top, a city wail'd : the spires 
Prick'd with incredible pinnacles into heaven. 
And by the gateway stirr'd a crowd ; and 

these 
Cried to me climbing, 'Welcome, Percivalel 
Thou mightiestand tliou purest among men !' 
And glad w.is I and clomb, but found at top 
No man, nor any voice. And thence I past 
Far thro' a ruinous city, and 1 saw 
That man had once dwelt there; but there 

I found 
Only one man of an exceeding age. 
' Where is that goodly company,' said I, 
' That so cried out upon me ? ' and he had 
Scarce any voice to answer, and yet gasp'd 
' Whence and what art thou ? ' and even as he 

spoke 
Fell into dust, and disappear'd, and I 
Was left alone once more, and cried in grief, 
' Lo, if I find the Holy Grail itself 
And touch it, it will crumble into dust.' 

" And thence I dropt into a lowly vale. 
Low as the hill was high, and where the vale 
Was lowest, found a chapel and thereby 
A holy hennit in a hermitage. 
To whom I told my phantoms, and he said : 

" ' O son, thou hast not true humility. 
The highest virtue, mother of thein all ; 
For when the Lord of all things made Him- 
self 
Naked of glory for His mortal change, 
"Take thou my robe," she said, " for all is 

thine." 
And all her form shone forth with sudden 

light 
So that the angels were amazed, and she 
Follow'd him down, and like a flying star 
Led <m the gray-hair'd wisdom of the east ; 
But her thou hast not known : for what is this 
Thou thoughtest of thy prowess and thy sins? 
Thou hast not lost thyself to save thyself 
As Galahad.' When the hermit made an en^ 



254 



THE HOLY GRAIL. 



In silver armor suddenly Galahad shone 
Kelore us, and against tiie chapel door 
Laid lance, and enter'd, and we knelt in 

prayer. 
And there tile hermit slaked my burning 

thirst 
And at the sacring of the mass I saw 
The holy elements alone ; but he : 
' Saw ye no more ? I, Galaliad, saw the Grail, 
The Holy Grail, descend upon the shr.ne : 
I saw the fiery face as of a child 
That smote itself into the bread, and went ; 
And hither am I come ; and never yet 
Hath what thy sister taught me first to see. 
This Holy Thing, fail'd Irom my side, nor 

come 
Cover'd, but moving with me night and day, 
fainter by day, but always in the night 
Blood-red, and sliding down the blacken'd 

marsh 
Blood-red, and on the naked mountain top 
Blood-red, and in the sleeping mere below 
Blood-red. And in the strength of this I rode, 
Shattering all evil customs everywhere, 
And past thro' Pagan realms, anil made them 

mine. 
And clash 'd with Pagan hordes, and bore 

them down. 
And broke thro' all, andin the strengtli of this 
Come victor But my time is hard at hand. 
And hence I go ; and one will crown me king 
Far in the spiritual city ; and come thou, too, 
For thou shalt see the vision when I go.' 

" While thus he spake, his eye, dwelling 
on mine, 
Drew me, with power upon me, till I grew 
One with him, to believe as he believed. 
Then, when the day began to wane, we went. 

" There rose a hill that none but man could 

climb, 
Scarr'd with a hundred wintry watercourses — 
Storm at the top, and when we gain'd it, 

storm 
Round us and death ; for every moment 

glanced 
His silver arms and gloom'd : so quick and 

thick 
The lightnings here and there to left and 

right 
Struck, till the dry old trunks about us, dead. 
Yea, rotten with a hundred years of death. 
Sprang into fire ; and at the base we found 
On either hand, as far as eye could see, 
A great black swamp and of an evil smell, 
Part black, part whiten'd with the bones of 

men, 
Not to be crost, save that some ancient king 
Had built a way, wliere, link'd with many a 

bridge, 
A thousand piers ran into the great Sea. 
And Galahad fled along them bridge by 

bridee. 
And every bridge as quickly as he crost 
Sprang into fire and vanish'd, tho' I yearnd 
To follow ; and thrice above him all the heav- 
ens 



Open'd and blazed with thunder 3i":h as 

seein'd 
Shoutings of all the sons of God : and first 
At unco 1 saw him far on tlio great Sea, 
In silver-shining armor starry-clear; 
And o'er his head the holy vessel hung 
Clothed in white samite or a luminous cloud. 
And with exceeding swiftness ran the boat 
If boat It were — 1 saw not whence it came. 
And when the heavens open'd and blazed 

again 
Roaring, I saw him like a silver star — 
And had he set the sail, or had the boat 
Become a living creature ciad with wings? 
And o'er his head the holy vessel hung 
Redder than any rose, a joy to me. 
For now I knew the veil had been withdrawn. 
Then in a moment when they blazed again 
Oi)ening, I saw the least of little stars 
Down on the waste, and straight beyond the 

star 
1 saw the spiritual city and all her spires 
And gateways in a glory like one pearl — 
No larger, tho' the goal of all the saints — 
Strike from the sea ; and from the star there 

shot 
A rosered sparkle to the city, and there 
Dwelt, and 1 knew it was the Holy Grail, 
Which never eyes on earth again shall see. 
I'hen fell the floods of heaven drowning the 

deep. 
And how my feet recross'd the deathful ridge 
No memory in me lives : but that I touch'd 
The chapel-doors at dawn I know ; and 

thence 
Taking my war-horse from the holy man. 
Glad thatno phantom vext me more, return'd 
To whence I came, the gate ol Artliur's 

wars." 

" O brother," ask'd Ambrosius, — " for in 
sooth 
These ancient books — and they would win 

thee — teem. 
Only I find not there this Holy Grail, 
With miracles and marvels like to these. 
Not all unlike ; which oftentime I read. 
Who read but on my breviary with ease. 
Till my head swims ; and then go forth aiid ' 

pass 
Down to the little thorpe that lies so close. 
And almost plaster'd like a martin's nest j 
To these old walls — and mingle with our j 
folk : . ' 

And knowing every honest face of theii-s, 
As well as ever shepherd knew his sheep. 
And every homely secret in their hearts. 
Delight myself with gossip and old wives,_ 
And ills and aches, and teethings, lyings-in. 
And mirthful sayings, children of the place, 
That have no meaning half a league away; 
Or lulling random squabbles when they rise, 
Chafferiiigs and chatterings at the market- 
cross, 
Rejoice, small man, in this small world of 

mine. 
Yea, even in their hens and in their eggs, — 
O brother, saving this Sir Galahad 



THE HOLY GRATL. 



2SS 



Came ye on none but phantoms in your quest, 
No man, no woman ? " 

Tlien, Sir Purcivale : 
"All men, to one so bound by such a vow, 
And women were as phantoms. O my 

brother, 
Why wilt thou shame me to confess to thee 
How far I falter'd from my quest and vow? 
For after I had lain so many nights 
A bedmate of the snail and eft and snake. 
In grass and burdock. I was changed to wan 
And meagre, and the vision had not come, 
And then I chanced ujion a goodly town 
With one great dwelling in the middle of it ; 
Thither I made, and there was I disarm'd 
By maidens each as fair as any flower : 
But when they led me into hall, behold 
The Princess of that castle was the one. 
Brother, and that one only, who had ever 
Made my heart leap ; for when I moved of old 
A slender page about her father's hall. 
And she a slender maiden, all my heart 
Went after her with longing : yet we twain 
Had never kiss'd a kiss, or vow'd a vow. 
And now I came upon her once again. 
And one had wedded her, and he was dead. 
And all his land and wealth and state were 

hers. 
And while I tarried, every day she set 
A banquet richer than the day before 
By me ; for all her longing and her will 
Was toward me as of old ; till one fair mom, 
I walking to and fro beside a stream 
That flash'd across her orchard underneath 
Her castle-walls, she stole upon my walk. 
And calling me the greatest of all knights. 
Embraced me, and so kiss'd me the first time, 
And gave herself and all her wealth to me. 
Then I remember'd .Arthur's warning word. 
That most of us would follow wandering fires. 
And the Quest faded in my heart. Anon, 
The heads of all her people drew to me. 
With supplication both of knees and tongue. 
' We have heard of thee : thou art our great- 
est knight : 
Our Lady says it, and we well believe : 
Wed thou our Lady, and rule over us. 
And thou shalt be as Arthur in our land.' 
O me, my brother! but one night my vow 
Burnt me within, so that I rose and tied, 
But wail'd and wept, and hated mine own 

self. 
And ev'n the Holy Quest, and all but her ; 
Then after I was joiu'd with Galahad 
Cared not lor her, nor anything upon earth." 

Then said the monk, " Poor men, when 

yule is cold. 
Must be content to sit by little fires. 
And this am 1, so that ye care for me 
Ever so little ; yea, and blest be Heaven 
That brought thee here to this poor house of 

ours. 
Where all the brethren are so hard, to warm 
My cold heart with a friend : butO the pity 
To find thine own first love once mere — to 

hold, 



Hold her a wealthy bride withui thine arms, 
Or all but hold, and then — cast her aside, 
Foregoing all her sweetne.ss, like a weed. 
For wo thai wani the warmjt of double life. 
We that are plagued with dreams of some* 

thmy sweet 
Beyond all sweetness in a life so rich, — 
An, blessed Lord, 1 speak too earthlywise, 
Seeing '. never stray'd beyond the cell. 
But live like an old badger in his earth. 
With earth about him everywhere, despite 
All fast and penance. Saw ye none beside. 
None of your knights?'" 

" Yea so," said Percivale : 
"One night mypathway swerving east, I saw 
The pelican on the casque of our Sir Bors 
All in the middk of tlie rising moon : 
And toward him spurr'd and hail'd him, and 

he me. 
And eatli made joy of either ; then he ask'd, 
' Where is he ? hast thou seen him — Lance- 
lot? Once,' 
Said good Sir Bors, ' he dash'd across me — 

mad. 
And maddening what he rode : and when I 

cried, 
" Ridest thou then so hotly on a quest 
So holy ? " Lancelot shouted, " .Slay ine-not I 
[ have been the sluggard, and I ride apace. 
For now there is a lion in the way." 
.So vanish'd.' 

" Then Sir Bors had ridden on 
Softly, and sorrowing for our Lancelot, 
Because his former madness, once the talk 
And scandal of our table, had return'd : 
F'or Lancelot's kith and kin so worship him 
That ill to him is ill to them ; to Bors 
Beyond the rest : he well had been content 
Not to have seen, so Lancelot might have 

seen. 
The Holy Cup of healing; and, indeed. 
Being .so clouded with his grief and love, 
Small heart was his after the Holy Quest : 
If God would send the vision, well : if not. 
The Quest and he were in the hands of 

Heaven. 

" And then, with small adventure met. Sir 

15ors 
Rode to the lonest tract of all the realm. 
And found a people there among their crags. 
Our race and blood, a remnant that were left 
Paynim amid their circles, and the stones 
They pitch up straight to heaven : and their 

wise men 
Were strong in that old magic which can 

trace 
The wandering of the stars, and scofF'd at 

liim, 
And this high Quest as at a simple thing: 
Told him he foUow'd — almost Arthur's 

words — 
A mocking fire : ' what other fire than he, 
Whereby the blood beats, and the blossom 

blows, 
And the sea rolls, and all the world is warm'd?' 



S56 



THE HOLY GRAIL. 



And wlien his answer chafed them, the rough 

crowd, 
Hearing he had a difference wiih their 

]5riests, 
Seized him, and bound and plunged him into 

a cell 
Of great piled stones ; and lying bounden 

there 
fn darkness thro' innumerable hours 
He heard the hollow-ringing heavens sweep 
( )ver him, till by miracle — what else ? 
Heavy as it was, a great stone slipt and fell, 
iSiich as no wind could move : and thro' the 

gap 
Glimmer'd the streaming scud : then came 

a night 
Still as tlie day was loud ; and thro' the gap 
The seven clear stars of Arthur's Table 

Round — 
For, brother, so one night, because they roll 
Thro' such a round in heaven, we named the 

stars. 
Rejoicing in ourselves and in our king — 
And these, like bright eyes of familiar friends. 
In on him shone, ' And then to me, to me,' 
Said good Sir Bors, ' beyond all hopes of 

mine. 
Who scarce had prav'd or ask'd it foi* my- 
self— 
Across the seven clear stars — O grace to 

me — 
In color like the fingers of a hand 
Before a burning taper, the sweet Grail 
Glided and past, and close ujion it peal'd 
A sharpquick tliunder.' Afterwards a maid. 
Who kept our holy faith among her kin 
]n secret, entering loosed and let him go." 

To whom the monk : " And I remember 

now 
That pelican on the casque : Sir Bors it was 
Who spake so low and sadly at our board ; 
And mighty reverent at our grace was he : 
A square-set man and honest : and his eyes, 
An out-door sign of all the warmth within. 
Smiled with his lips — a smile beneath a 

cloud, 
But Heaven had meant it for a sunny one : 
Ay, ay. Sir Bors, who else ? But when ye 

reach'd 
The city, found ye all your knights return'd, 
(^r was there sooth in Arthur's prophecy. 
Tell me, and what said each, and what the 

King ? " 

Then answer'd Percivale : " And that 

can I, 
Brother, and truly ; since the living words 
Of so great men as Lancelot and our King 
Pass not from door to door and out again. 
But sit within the house. O, when we reach'd 
The city, our horses stumbling as they trode 
On heaps of ruin, hornless unicorns, 
Crack'd basilisks, and splinter'd cockatriies. 
And shatter'd talbots, which had left the 

stones 
Raw, tliat they fell from, brought us to the 

hall. 



" And there sat Arthur on the dais-throne, 
And those that had gone out upon the 

t,)uest, 
Wasted and worn, and but a tithe of them, 
And those tliat had not, stood before the 

King. 
Who, when he saw me, rose, and bade me 

hail, 
.Saying, ' A v/slfare in thine eye reproves 
Our fear of some disastrous chance for thee 
On hill, or plain, at sea, or flooding ford. 
So fierce a gale made havoc here of late 
Among the strange devices of our kings : 
Yea, shook this newer, stronger hall of ours, 
And from the statue ftlerlin irioulded for us 
Half wrench'd a golden wing; but now— ( 

the quest, I 

This vision — hast thou seen the Holy Cup, J 
I'hat Joseph brought of old to Glastonbury? ' 

" So when I told him all thyself hast heard, ; 

Anibrosius, and my fresh but fixt resolve 9 

To pass away into the quiet life, I 

He answer'd not, but, sharply turning, ask'd J 

OfGawain, 'Gavvain, was this Questforthee?' ^ 

'"Nay, lord,' said Gawain, 'not for such !■ 
asl. \ 

Therefore I communed with a saintly man, | 
Who made me sure the Quest was not for me. { 
For I was mucli awearied of the Quest ; 
Hut found a silk pavilion in a field. 
And merry maidens in it ; and then lliis gale 
'lore my pavilion from the tenting-pin, 
.And blew my merry maidens all about 
With all discomfort ; yea, and but for lliis, - 
l\Iy twelvemonth and a day were pleasant to 
me.' 

" He ceased ; and Arthur turn'd to whom 

at first 
He saw not, for Sir Bors, on entering, push'd 
Athwart the throng to Lancelot, caught his 

hand, 
Held it, and there, half hidden by him, stood, 
Until the King espied him, saying to him, 
' Hail, Bors ! if ever loyal man and true 
Could see it, thou hast seen the Grail ' ; and 

Bors, 
'Ask me not, for I may not speak of it, 
I saw it ' : and the tears were in his eyes — 

" Then there remain'd but Lancelot, fbl 

the rest 
Spake but of sundry perils in the storm ; 
Perhaps, like him of Cana in Holy Writ, 
Our Arthur kept his best until the last. 
'Thou, too, my Lancelot,' ask'd the King. 

' my friend. 
Our mightiest, hath this Quest avail'd for 

thee '>. ' 

"'Our mightiest!' answer'd Lancelot, 

with a groan ; 
' O King ! ' — and when he paused, me- 

thought I spied 
A dying fire of madness in his eyes, — 
' O King, my friend, if friend of thine I be 



THE HOLY GRAIL. 



257 



Happier are those that welter in t' eir sin, 
Swi..j 1.1 Lie iiiiitl, that cai.not see to s.iine, 
Slime of the (Jilch : but in me lived a sin 
So strange, of such a kind, that all of pure. 
Noble, and knightly in me twined and clung 
Round that one sin, until the wholesome 

flower 
And poisonous grew together, each as each. 
Nut to be pluck'd asunder ; and when thy 

knights 
Sware, I sware with them only in the hope 
That could I touch or see the Holy Grail 
They might be pluck'd asunder : then I spake 
To one most holy saint, who we(jt and said. 
That save they could be pluck'd asunder, all 
My quest were but in vain ; to whom I vow'd 
That I would work according as he will'd. 
And forth I went, and while I yearn'd and 

strove 
To tear the twain asunder in my heart, 
My madness came upon me as of old. 
And whipt me into waste fields far away; 
There was 1 beaten down by little men. 
Mean knights, to whom the moving of my 

sword 
And shadow of my spear had been enow 
To scare them from me once ; and then I 

came 
All in my folly to the naked shore, 
Wide flats, where nothing but coarse grasses 

grew ; 
But such a blast, my King, bega-- to blow, 
So loud a blast along the shore ai. 1 sea. 
Ye could not hear the waters for the blast, 
Tho' heapt in mounds and ridges all the sea 
Drove like a cataract, and all the sand 
Swept like a river, and the clouded heavens 
Were shaken with the motion and the sound. 
And blackening in the sea-foam sway'd a 

boat. 
Half swallow'd in it, anchor'dwith a chain ; 
And in my madness to myself I said, 
" I will embark and I will lose myself. 
And in the great sea wash away my sin." 
I burst the chain, I sprang into the boat. 
Seven days I drove along the dreary deep. 
And with me drove the moon and all the 

stars ; 
And the wind fell, and on the seventh night 
I heard the shingle grinding in the surge. 
And felt the boat shock earth, and looking up, 
Behold, the enchanted towers of Carbonek, 
A castle like a rock upon a rock, 
With chasm-like portals open to the sen. 
And steps that met the breaker ! tb^re was 

none 
Stood near it but a lion on each side 
That kept the entry, and the moon was full. 
Then from the boat I leapt, and up the stairs. 
There drew my sword. With sudden-flaring 

manes 
Those two great beasts rose upright like a 

man, 
I'j.ich gript a shoulder, .Tnd I stood between ; 
. And, when I would have smitten them, heard 
* a voice, 

"'Doubt not, go forward ; if thou doubt, the 

beasts 



Will tear thee piecemeal"; then with violence 
The sword was dash'd from out my hand, 

and fell. 
And up into the sounding hall I past ; 
But nothing in the sounding hall I saw. 
No bench nor table, painting on the wall 
Or shield of knight ; only the rounded mootl 
Thro' the tall oriel on the rolling sea. 
But always in the quiet house I heard, 
Clear as a lark, high o'er me as a lark, 
A sweet voice singing in the topmost tower 
To the eastward : up 1 dimb'd a thousand 

steps 
With pain : as in a dream I seem'd to climb 
Forever : at the last I reach'd a door, 
A light was in the crannies, and I heard, 
" Glory and joy and honor to our Lord 
And to the Holy Vessel of the Grail." 
Then in my madness 1 essay'd the door ; 
It gave, and thro' a stormy glare, a heat 
As from a seventimes-heated furnace, I, 
Blasted and burnt, and blinded as 1 was, 
With such a fierceness that! swoon'd away — 
O, yet methought I saw the Holy Grail, 
All pall'd in crimson samite, and around 
Great angels, awful shapes, and wings and 

eyes. 
And but for all my madness and my sin. 
And then my swooning, I had sworn I saw 
That which I saw : but what 1 saw was veil'd 
And cover'd ; and this quest was not for me.' 

" So speaking, and here ceasing, Lancelot 

left 
The hall long silent, till Sir Gawain — nay, 
Brother, I need not tell thee foolish words, — 
A reckless and irreverent knight was he. 
Now bolden'd by the silence of his King. 
Well, I will tell thee : ' O king, my liege,' he 

said, 
' Hath Gawain faii'd in any quest of thine? 
When have I stinted stroke in foughten field? 
But as for thine, my good friend, Percivale, 
Thy holy mm and thou have driven men mad, 
Yea, made our mightiest madder than our 

least. 
But by mmi eyes and by mine ears I swear, 
I will be deafer than the blue-eyed cat. 
And thrice as blind as any noonday owl, 
To lioly virgins in their ecstasies. 
Henceforward.' 

" ' Deafer,' said the blameless King, 
' Gawain, and blinder unto holy things 
Hope not to make thyself by idle vows. 
Being too blind to have desire to see. 
But if indeed there came a sign from heaven. 
Blessed are Bors, Lancelot, and Percivale, 
For these have seen according to their sight. 
For every fiery prophet in old times, 
And all the sacred madness of the hard. 
When Gfid made music thro' them, could 

but speak 
His music by the framework and the chord ; 
And as ye saw it ye have spoken truth. 



'Nay- 
yet 



- but thou errest, Lancelot : nevel 



2S'5 



FELLEAS AND ETTA R RE. 



Could all of true and noble in knight and man 
I'wine idund one sin, whatever it might be, 
With such a closeness, but apart there .L;rew, 
Save that he were the swine thou spakest of. 
Some root of knighthood and pure nobleness ; 
Wliereto see thou, that it may bear its llowcr, 

" ' And spake I not too truly, O my 
knights ? 
Was I too dark a prophet when I said 
To those who went upon the Holy Quest, 
That most of them would follow wandering 

fires, 
Lost in the quagmire? — lost to me and gone, 
And left me gazing at a barren board. 
And a lean Order — scarce return'da tithe — 
And out of those to whom the vision came 
My greatest hardly will believe he saw ; 
Another hath beheld it afar off, 
And leaving human wrongs to right them- 
selves. 
Cares but to pass into the silent life. 
And one hath had the vision face to face, 
And now his chair desires him here in vain, 
However they may crown him otherwhere. 

" ' And some among you held, that if the 

King 
Had seen the sight he would have sworn the 

vow : 
Not easily, seeing that the King must guard 
That which he rules, and is but as the hind. 
To whom a space of land is given to plough, 
Who may not wander from the allotted field, 
Before his work be done : but, being done, 
Let visions of the night or of the day 
Come, as they will ; and many a time they 

come, 
Until tills earth he walks on seems not earth, 
This light that strikes his eyeball is notlisiht, 
This air that smites his forehead is not air 
But vision — yea, his very hands and feet — 
In moments when he feels he cannot die, 
And knows himself no vision to himself. 
Nor the high God a vision, nor that One 
Who rose again : ye have seen what ye have 

seen.' 

" So spake the king : I knew not all he 
meant." 



PELLEAS AND ETTARRE. 

King Arthur made new knights to fill the 

gap 
Left by the Holy Quest ; and as he sat 
In hall at old Caerlenn, the high doors 
Were soitly sunder'd, and thro' those a vouth, 
Pelleas, and the sweet smell of the fields 
Past, and the sunshine came along whh him. 

" Make me thy knight, because 1 know, 
Sir King, 
All that belongs to knighthood, and 1 love," 
Sucli was his cry ; for having heard the King 
Had let proclaim a tournament — the prize 
A golden circlet and a knightly sword, 



Full fain had Pelleas for his lady wo" 
The golden circlet, for himself the sword : 
And there were those who knew him neal 

the King 
And promised for him : and Arthur made 

him knight. 

And this new knight. Sir Pelleas of the 

isles — 
But lately come to his inheritance. 
And lord of many a barren isle was he — 
Riding at noon, a day or twain before. 
Across the forest call'd of Dean, to find 
Caerleou and the King, had felt the sun 
Beat like a strong knight on his helm, and 

reel'd 
Almost to falling from his hor.se ; but saw 
Near him a mound of even-sloping side, 
Whereon a hundred stately beeches grew, 
And here and there great hollies under them. 
Bi:t for a mile all round was open space. 
And fern and heath : and slowly Pelleas drew 
'I'o that dim day, then binding his good horss 
To a tree, cast himself down ; and as he lay 
At random looking over the brown earth 
Thro' that green-glooming twilight of the 

grove, 
It seem'd to Pelleas that the fern without 
Burnt as a living fire of emeralds. 
So that his eyes were dazzled looking at it. 
Then o'er it crost the dimness of a cloud 
Floaiing, and once the shadow of a bird 
Flying, and then a fawn ; and his eyes closed. 
And since he loved all maidens, but no maid 
In special, half awakehewhisper'd, " Where? 
O where? I love thee, tho' 1 know thee not. 
For fair thou art and pure as Guinevere, 
And I will make thee with my spear and 

sword 
As famous — O my queen, my Guinevere, 
For I will be thine Arthur when we meet." 

Suddenly waken"d with a sound of talk 
And laughter at the limit of the wood, 
And glancing thro' the hoary boles, he saw, 
Strange as to some old prophet might have 

seem'd 
A vision hovering on a sea of fire. 
Damsels in divers colors like the cloud 
Of sunset and sunrise, and all of them 
On horses, and the horses richly trapt 
Breast-high in that bright line of bracken 

stood : 
And all the damsels talk'd confusedly. 
And one was pointing this way, and one that, 
Because the way was lost. 

And Pelleas rose, 
And loosed his horse, and led him to the light. 
There she that seem'd the chief among them 

said, 
" In hapi)y time behold our pilot-star ! 
Vonth, we are damsels-errant, and we ride, 
Arni'd as ye see, to tilt .ngainst the knights 
There at Caerleon, but have lost our way : 
To right? to left? straight forward? back 

again ? 
Which ? tell us quickly." 



PELLEAS AND ETTARRE. 



And Pelleas gazing thought, 
Is Guinevere herself so beautiful ?" 
For large her violet eyes look'd, and her 

bloom 

A rosy diwu kindled in stainless heavens, 
And roiaid her limbs, mature in womanhood. 
And slender was her hand and small her 

shape, 
And hut for those large eyes, the haunts of 

scorn, 
She nn'ght have seem'd a toy to trifle with, 
And piss and care no more. But while he 

gazed 
TUl- beauty of her flesh abash'd the boy, 
A . Uio' it were the beauty of her soul : 
V':x as the base man, judging of ilie good. 
Puts his own baseness in him by default 
or will and nature, so did Pelleas lend 
All the young beauty of his own soul to hers, 
Pi;!ieving her ; and when she spake to him, 
Si iiumei'd, and cculd not make her a reply, 
f or out of the waste islands liad he come, 
Wliere saving his own sisters he had known 
Scarce any but ihe women of his isles. 
Rough wives, that laugh'd and scream'd 

against the gulls. 
Makers of nets, and living from the sea. 

Then with a slow smile turn'd the lady 
round 
And look'd upon her people ; and as when 
A ^tone is flung into some sleeping tarn, 
'I'lie circle widens till it lip the marge, 
.S]Jic.id the slow smile thro' all her company. 
Three knights were thereainong ; and they 

too smiled. 
Scorning him ; for the lady was Ettarre, 
And she was a great lady in her land. 

.'iu'ain she said, " O wild and of the woods, 
Knowest thou not the fashion of our speech .^ 
( )i!iivethe Heavensbutgiventheea fair face, 
L.icking a tongue ? " 

" O damsel," answer'd he, 
I " I woke from dreams ; and coining out of 

gloom 

Was dazzled by the sudden light, and crave 
Pard(m : but will ye to Caerleon ? I 
Go likewise : shall I lead you to the King ? " 

"Lead then," she said; and thro' the 

woods they went. 
And while they rode, the meaning in his eyes. 
His teuderne.ss of manner, and chaste awe. 
His broken utterances and bashfuhiess. 
Were all a burden to her, and in her heart 
She mutter'd, " [ have lighted on a fool, 
Raw, yet so stale ! " but since her mind was 

bent 

On hearing, after trumpet blown, her name 
And title, " Queen of Beauty," in the lists 
Cried — and beholding him so strong, she 

thought 

That peradventure he will ficht for me. 
And win the circlet : therefore flatter'd him. 
Being so gracious, that he wellnigh deem'd 
His wish by hers was echo'd ; and her knights 



And all her damsels too were gracious to him. 
For she was a great lady 

And when they reach'd 
Caerleon, ere they past to lodging, she. 
Taking his hand, " O the strong hand," she 

said, 
" See ! look at mine I but wilt thou fight for 

me, 
And win me this fine circlet, Pelleas, 
That I may love thee ? " 

Then his helpless heart 
Leapt, and he cried, " Ay ! wilt thou if X 

win ? " 
" Ay, that will \" she answer'd, and she 

laugh'd. 
And straitly nipt the hand, and flung it from 

her; 
Then glanced askew at those three knights of 

hers, 
Till all her ladies laugh'd along with her. 

" O happy world," thought Pelleas, "all, 

meseems, 
Are happy ; I the happiest of them all." 
Nor slept that night for pleasure in his blood. 
And green wood-ways and eyes among the 

leaves ; 
Then being on the morrow knighted, sware 
To love one only ; and as he came away, 
The men who met him rounded ontheir heels 
And wonder'd alter him, because his face 
Shone like the countenance of a priest of old 
Against the flame about a sacrifice 
Kindled by fire from heaven : so glad was he. 

Then Arthur made vast banquets, and 

strange knights 
From the four winds came in : and each one 

sat, 
Tho' served with choice from air, land, 

stream, and sea. 
Oft m mid-banquet measuring with his eyes 
His neighbor's make and might : and Pelleas 

look'd 
Noble among the noble, for he dream'd 
His lady loved him, and he knew himself 
Loved of the King : and him his new-made 

knight 
Worshipt, whose lightest whisper moved hitn 

more 
Than all the ranged reasons of the world. 

Then blush'd and brake the morning of the 
jousts. 
And this was call'd " The Tournament of 

Youth " : 
For Arthur, loving his young knight, with- 
held 
His older and his mightier from the lists, 
That Pelleas might obtain his lady's love. 
According to her promise, and remain 
Lord of the tourney. And Arthur had the 

jousts 
Down in the flat field by the shore of Usk 
Holden : the gilded parapets were crown'd 
With faces.aud the great tower fill'd with eyes 



PELLEAS AND ETTA R RE. 



Up to the summit, and the trumpets blew. 
There all day long Sir Pelleas kept the field 
With honor : so by that strong liand ot" his 
.The sword and golden circlet were achieved. 

Then rang the shout his lady loved : the 

heat 
Of pride and glory fired her face : her eye 
Sparkled ; she caught the circlet from his 

lance, 
And there before the people crown'd herself : 
So for the last time she was gracious to him. 

Then at Caerleon for a space — her look 
Bright forall others, cioudieron her knight — 
Linger'd Ettarre : and seeing Pelleas droop. 
Said Guinevere, " We ir.arve! at thee much, 

damsel, wearing this unsunny face 

To him who won thee glory ! " and she said, 
" Had ye not held your Lancelot in your 

bower, 
My Queen, he had not won." Whereat the 

Queen, 
As one whose foot is bitten by an ant, 
Glanced down upon her, turn'd and went 

her way. 

Bi't after, when her damsels, and herself. 
And those three knights all set their faces 

home. 
Sir Pelleas follow'd. She that saw him cried, 
" Damsels — and yet 1 should be shamed to 

sav it — 

1 cannot bide Sir Baby. Keep him back 
Among yourselves. Would rather that we 

had 
Some rough old knight who knew the worldly 

wav. 
Albeit grizzlier than a bear, to ride 
And jest with : take him to you, keep hini off, 
And pamper him with paiimeat, if ye will, 
Old milky fables of the wolf and sheep. 
Such as the wholesome mothers tell their 

boys. 
Nay, should ye try him with a merry one 
To find his mettle, good : and if he fly us, 
Small matter! let him." This her damsels 

heard. 
And mindful of her small and cruel hand. 
They, closing round him thro' the journey 

home. 
Acted her best, and always from her side 
Restrain'd him with all manner of device. 
So that he could not come to sneech with her. 
And when she gain'd her castle, upsprang the 

bridge, 
Down rang the grate of iron thro' the groove, 
(Vnd he was left alone in open field. 

" These be the ways of ladies," Pelleas 

thought, 
"To those who love them, trials of our faith, 
yea, let her prove me to the uttermost, 
For loyal to the uttermost am 1 " 
So made his moan ; and, darkness falling, 

sought 
A priory not far off, there lodged, but rose 
With morning every day, and moist or dry 



Full-arm'd upon his charger all day lonf^ 
Sat by the walls, and no one open'd to him. 

And this persistence turn'd her scorn to 

wrath. 
Thei. calling her three knights, she charged 

them. " Out ! 
And drive him from the walls." And out they 

came, 
]^ut Pelleas overthrew them as they dash'd 
Against him one bv one ; and these return'd, 
But still he kept his watch beneath the wall. 

Thereon herwrath became a hate; andonce, 

A week beyond, while walking on the walls 

With her three knights, she pointed down- 
ward, " Look, 

He haunts me — I cannot breathe — be- 
sieges me ; 

Down ! strike him I put my hate into your 
strokes. 

And drive him from my walls." And down 
they went. 

And Pelleas overthrew them one by one ; 

And from the tower above him cried Ettarre, \ 

" Bind him, and bring him in." 

He heard her voice : 
Then let the strong hand, which had over- 
thrown 
Her minion-knights, by those he overthrew 
Be bouiiden straight, and so they brought 
him in. 

Then when he came before Ettarre, the 

sis;ht 
Of her rich beauty made him at one glance 
More bondsman in liishearlthan in hisbonds. 
Yet with good cheer he spake, " Behold me. 

Lady, 
A prisoner, and the vassal of thy will ; 
And if thou keep me in thy donjon here, 
Content am I so that I see thy face 
But once a day :-for I have sworn my vows. 
And thou hast given thy promise, and I know 
That all these pains are trials of my faith. 
And that thyself when thou hast seen me 

strain'd 
And sifted to the utmost, wilt at length 
Yield me thy love and know me for thy 

knight." 

Tlien .she began to rail so bitterly, 
Will\ all her damsels, he was stricken mute; 
But when she mock'd his vows and the great 

King, 
Lighted on words : " For pity of thme own 

self. 
Peace, Lady, peace: is he not thine and 

mine? " 
"Thou fool," she said, " I never heard his 

voice 
But long'd to break away. Unbind him now, 
And thrust him out of doors : for save he be 
Fool to the midmost marrow of his bones. 
He will return no more." And those, her 

three, 
Laugh'd, and unbound, and thrust him from 

the gate. 



PELL HAS AND ETTARRE. 



30l 



And after this, a week beyond, again 
She cali'd tnem, saying, " There he watches 

yet, 
There like a dog before his master's door ! 
Kick'd, he returns :do ye not hate him, ye? 
Ye know yourselves : how can ye bide at 

peace, 
Affronted with his fulsome innocence ? 
Are ye but creatures of the board and bed. 
No men to strike? fall on him all at once. 
And if ye slay him I reck not : if ye fail. 
Give ye the slave mine order to be bound, 
Bind him as heretofore, and bring him in : 
It may be ye shall slay him in his bonds." 

She spake ; and at her will they couch'd 

their spears. 
Three against one : and Gawain passing by. 
Bound upon solitary adventure, saw 
Low down beneath the shadow of those 

lowers 
A villany, three to one : and thro' his heart 
The fire of honor and all noble deeds 
Flash'd, and he cali'd, " I strike upon thy 

side — 
The caitiffs!" " Nay," said Pelleas, "but 

forbear ; 
He needs no aid who doth his lady's will." 

So Gawain, looking at the villany done, 
Forebore, but in his heat and eagerness 
Trembled and quiver'd, as the dog, withheld 
A moment from the vermin that he sees 
Before him, shivers, ere he springs and kills. 

And Pelleas overthrew them, one to three ; 
And they rose up, and bound, and brought 

him in. 
Then fir-;t her anger, leaving Pelleas, bum'd 
Full on her knights in many an evil name 
Of craven, weakling, and thrice-beaten 

hound : 
" Yet, take him, ye that scarce are fit to touch. 
Far less to bind, your viator, and thrust him 

out. 
And let who will release him from his bonds. 
And if he comes again " — there she brake 

short ; 
And Pelleas answer'd, " Lady, for indeed 
I loved you and [ deem'd you beautiful, 
I cannot brook to see your beauty marr'd 
Thro' evil spite : and if ye love me not, 
I cannot bear to dream you so forsworn : 
I had liefer ye were worthy of my love. 
Than to be loved again of you — farewell ; 
And tho' ye kill my hope, not yet my love, 
Vex not yourself: ye will not see me more." 

While thus he spake, she gazed upon the 

man 
Of princely bearing, tho' in bonds, and 

thought, 
" Why have f push'd him frora me ? this man 

l.oves. 
If love there be : yet him I loved not. Why ? 
I deem'd him fool? yea, so? or that in him 
A somethini; — was it nobler than myself? — 
Seem'd my reproacl: ? He is not of my kind. 



He could not love me, did he know me well. 
Nay, let him go — and quickly." And h;:r 

knights 
Laugh'd not, but thrust him bounden out of 

door. 

Forth sprang Gawain, and loosed him from 

his bonds. 
And flung them o'er the walls; and afterward 
Shaking his hands, as from a lazar s rag, 
" Faith of my body," he said, " and art 

thou not — 
Yea thou art he, whom late our Arthur made 
Knight of his table ; yea and he tiiat won 
The circlet ? wherefore hast thou so defamed 
Thy brotherhood in me and all the rest. 
As let these caitiffs on thee work their will?" 

And Pelleas answer'd, "O, their wills are 

hers 
For whom I won the circlet ; and mine, hers. 
Thus to be bounden, so to see lier (ace, 
Marr'd tho' it be with spite and mockery 

now. 
Other than when I found her in the woods ; 
-Vnd tho' she hath me bounden but in spite, 
.\nd all to flout me, when they bring me in. 
Let me be bounden, I shall see her face ; 
Else must I die thro' mine unhappiness." 

And Gawain answer'd kindly tho' in scorn, 
" Why, let my lady bind me if she will. 
And let my lady beat me if she will : 
But an she send her delegate to thrall 
t'hese fighting hands of mine — Christ kill 

me then 
But r will slice him handless by the wrist. 
And let my lady sear the stump for him, 
Howl as he may. But hold me for your friend: 
Come, ye know nothing : here I pledge my 

troth, 
Yea, by the honor of the Table Round, 
I will be leal to thee and work thy work. 
And tame thy jailing princess to thine hand. 
Lend me thine horse and arms, and 1 will say 
That I have slain thee. She will let me in 
To hear the manner of thy fight and fall ; 
Then, when I come within her counsels, then 
From prime to vespers will I chant thy praise 
As prowest knight and truest lover, more 
Than any have sung thee living, till she long 
To have thee back in lusty life again. 
Not to be bound, save by white bonds and 

warm. 
Dearer than freedom. Wherefore now tiiy 

horse 
And armor : let me go : be comforted : 
Give me three days to melt her fancy, and 

hope 
The third night hence will bring thee news 

of gold " 

Then Pelleas lent his horse and all his arms, 
.Saving the c;nodly sword, his prize, and took 
Gawain's, and said, " Betray me not, but 

help — 
Art thou not he whom men call light-of- 
love? " 



PEL LEAS AND ETTA R RE. 



"Ay," said Gawain, "for women be so 
light." 
Then bounded forwaid to the castle walls. 
And raised a bugle hanging from his neck. 
And winded it, and ihat so musically 
'I'hat all the old echoes hidden in the wall 
Rang out like hollow woods at hiuitiiig-tide. 

Up ran a score of damsels to the tower; 
" Avaunt," they cried, " our lady loves thee 

not." 
But Gawain lifting up his visor said, 
"Gawam am I, Gawain of Arthur's court. 
And I have slain this Pelleas whom ye hate : 
Behold his horse and armor. Open gate. 
And 1 will make you merry." 

And down they ran. 
Her damsels, crying to their lady, " Lo ! 
Pelleas is dead — he told us, he that hath 
His horse and armor : will ye let him in ? 
He slew him ! Gawain, Gawain of the court, 
Sir Gawain — there he waits below the wall, 
Blowmghisbugleaswnoshouldsayhimnay." 

And so, leave given, straight on thro' open 

door 
Rode Gawain, whomshe greeted courteously. 
" Dead, is it so ? " she ask'd. " Ay, ay," said 

he, 
'And oft in dying cried upon your name." 
" Pity on him," she answer'd, " a good 

knight, 
But never let me bide one hour at peace." 
"Ay," thought Gawain, "and ye be fair 

enow : 
But I to your dead man have given my troth, 
ITiat whom ye Joalhe him will I make you 

love." 

So those three days, aimless about the land. 
Lost in a doubt. Polkas wandering 
Waited, until the third night brought amoon. 
With promise of large light on woods and 
ways. 

The night was hot : he could not rest, but 

rode 
Ere midnight to her walls, and bound his 

horse 
Hard by the gates. Wide open werethe gates, 
And no watch kept ; and in thro' these he 

past. 
And heard but his own steps, and his own 

heart 
Beating, for nothing moved bnt his own self. 
And his own shadow. Then he crost the court. 
And saw the posteni portal also wide 
Yawning ; and u]) a slojie of garden, all 
Of roses white and red, and wild ones mixf 
And overgrowing them, went »in, and fo md. 
Here too, all husli'd below the mellow moon, 
Save that one rivulet from a tinv cave 
Came lightening downward, n?id sospilt it.ielf 
Among the roses, and was lost again. 

Then was he ware that white pavilions rose. 
Three from the bushes, gildeo-peakt : in one, | 



Red a' er revel, droned her lurdan knights 
Slumbering, aud their three squires across 

their feet : 
In one, their malice on the placid lip 
Froz'n by sweet sleep, fourot her damsels lay : 
And in the third, the circlet of the jousls 
Bound on berbrow, were Gawain and Ettarre. 

Back, as a hand that pushes thro' the leaf 
To find a nest and feels a snake, he drew : 
Back, as a coward slinks from what he fears 
To cope with, or a traitor proven, or hound 
Beaten, did Pelleas in an utter shame 
Creep with his shadow thro' the court again. 
Fingering at his sword-handle until he stood 
There on the castle-bridge once more, and 

thought, 
" I will go back, and slay them where they 

he." 

And so went back, and seeing them yet in 

sleep 
Said, '• Ye, that so dishallow the holy sleep. 
Your sleep is death," and drew the sword, 

and thought, 
"What! slay a sleeping knight? the King 

hath bound 
And sworn me to this brotherhood "; again, 
"Alas that ever a knight should be so false." 
Then tum'd, and so letuni'd, aud groaning 

laid 
The naked sword athwart theirnaked throats, 
lliere left it, and them sleeping ; and she lay. 
The circlet of the tourney round her brows. 
And the sword of the tourney across her 

throat. 

And forth he past, and mounting on his 
hnr.se 

Stared at her towers that, larger than them- 
selves 

In their own darkness, throng'd into the 
moon. 

Then crush'd the saddle with his thighs, and 
clench'd 

Ilis hands, and madden'd with himself and 
moan'd : 

" Would they have risen against me in 

their blood 
At the last day ? 1 might have answer'd them 
Even before high God. O towers so strong. 
So solid, would that even while I gaze 
'I'he crack of earthquake shivering to your 

base 
.Split you, and Hell burst up your harlot roofs 
Bellowing, and charr'd you thro' and thro' 

within. 
Black as the harlot's heart — hollow as a 

skull ! 
Let the fierce east scream thro' your eyelet- 
holes, 
And whirl the dust of harlots round and 

round 
In dung and nettles! hiss, snake — I saw 

him there — 
Let the fox hark, let the wolf yell. VVho yells 
Here in the still sweet suiuoier night, but I — 



PELLEAS AND ETTARRE. 



263 



I, the poor Pel\;as whom she call'd her 

fool? 
Fool, beast — he, she, or I ? myself most 

fool ; 
Beast loo, as lacking human wit — disgraced, 
Dishoiior'd all for trial of true love — 
Love? — we be all alike : only the king 
Hath made us fools and liars. O noble vows ! 

great and sane and simple race of brutes 
That own no lust because they have no law ! 
For why should I have loved her to my 

shame ? 

1 loathe her, as I loved her to my shame. 
I never loved her, I but lusted for her — 
Away— " 

He dash'd the rowel into his horse, 
And bounded forth and vanish'd thro' the 
night. 

Then she, that felt the cold touch on her 
throat, 
\waking knew the sword, and turn'd herself 
I'o Gawain : " Liar, for thou hast not slain 
'''his Pelleas ' here he stood and might have 

slain 
Me and thyself.' And he that tells the tale 
.Says that her ever-veering fancy turn'd 
I'o Pelleas. as the one true knight on earth. 
And only lover ; and thro' herlove her life 
Wasted and pined, desiring him in vain 

But he by wild and waj', for half the night. 
And over hard and soft, striking the sod 
From out the soft, the spark from offthe hard, 
Rode till the star above the wakening sun. 
Beside that tower where Percivale was 

cnwl'd, 
Glanced from the rosy forehead of the dawn. 
For so the words were flash'd into his heart 
He knew not whence or wherefore: "O 

sweet star. 
Pure on the virgin forehead of the dawn." 
And there he would have wept, but felt his 

eyes 
Harder and drier than a fountain bed 
In summer : thither came the village girls 
And linger'd talking, and they come no more 
Till the sweet heavens have fiU'd it from the 

heights 
Again with living waters in the change 
Of seasons : hard his eyes ; harder his heart 
Seem'd :but soweary were his limbs, that he. 
Gasping, " Of Arthur's hall am L but here. 
Here let me rest and die," cast himself down. 
And gulf 'd his griefs in inmost sleep ; so lay. 
Till shaken by a dream, that Gawain fired 
The hall of Merlin, and the morning star 
Kccl'd in the smoke, brake into flame, and 

fell. 

He woke, and being ware of some onenigh. 
Sent hands upon him, as to tear him, crying 
" False ! and I held thee pure as Guinevere." 

But Percivale stood near him and replied, 
" -"^in 1 but fal.se as Guinevere is pure ? 
, Or art thou mazed with dreams ? or being one 



Of our free-spoken Table hast not heard 
That Lancelot " — there he check'd himself 
and paused. 

Then fared it with Sir Pelleas as with onj 
Who gets a wound in battle, and the sword 
That made it plunges thro' the wound again^ 
And pricks it deeper : and he shrank and 

wail'd, 
"Is the Queen false?" and Percivale was 

mute. 
" Have any of our Round Table held iheii 

vows ? " 
And Percivale made answer not a word. 
"Is the king true?" "The king!" said 

Percivale. 
" Why then let men couple at once with 

wolves. 
What ! art thou mad?" 

But Pelleas, leaping up, 
Ran thro' the doors and vaulted on his horse 
And fled : small pity upon his horse had he, 
Or on himself, or any, and when he met 
A cripple ; one that held a hand for alms — 
Hunch'd as he was, and like an old dwarf- 
elm 
That turns its back on the salt blast, the boy 
Paused not but overrode him, shouting, 

" False, 
And false with Gawain!" and so left him 

bruised 
And batter'd, and fled on, and hill and 

wood 
VVent ever streaming by him till the gloom, 
■f'hat follows on the turning of the world, 
Darken'd the common path : he twitch'd the 

reins. 
And mnde his beast that better knew it, 

swerve 
Now off it and now on ; but when he saw 
High up in heaven the hall that Merlin built, 
Blackening against the dead-green stripes 

of Even, 
" Black nest of rats," he groan'd, "ye build 

too high." 

Not long thereafter from the city gates 
Issued Sir Lancelot riding airily, 
Warm with a gracious parting from the 

Queen, 
Peace at his heart, and gazing at a star 
And marvelling what it was : on whom the 

boy. 
Across the silent seeded meadow-grass 
Borne, clash'd : and Lancelot, saying, 

" What name hast thou 
That ridest here so blindly and so hard ? " 
" I have no name," he shouted, " a scourga 

am I, 
To lash the treasons of the Table Round." 
"Yea, but thy name?" "I have many 

names," he cried : 
" I am wrath and shame and hate and evil 

fame. 
And like a poisonous wind I pass ti-. blast 
And blaze the crime of Lanceloi and the 

Queen." 



264 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 



" First over me," said Lancelot, " shalt | 

thou pass." 
" Fight, therefore," yell'd the other, and 

either knight 
Drew back a space, and when they closed, 

at once 
The weary steed of Pelleas floundering flung 
His rider, who called out from the dark field, 
"Thou art false as Hell: slay me : I have 

no sword.'' 
Then Lancelot, " Yea, between thy lips — 

and sharp ; 
But here will I disedge it by thy death." 
" Slay then," he shriek'd, "my will is to be 

slain." 
And Lancelot, with his heel upon the fall'n. 
Rolling his eyes, a moment stood, then 

spake : 
" Rise, weakling ; I am Lancelot ; say thy 

say." 

And Lancelot slowly rode his war-horse 

back 
To Camelot, and Sir Pelleas in brief while 
Caught his unbroken limbs from the dark 

field. 
And follow'd to the city. It chanced that 

both 
Brake into hall together, worn and pale. 
There with her knights and dames was 

Guinevere. 
Full wonderiugly she gazed on Lancelot 
So soon return'd. and then on Pelleas, 
Him who had not greeted her, but cast him- 
self 
Down on a bench, hard-breathing. " Have 

ye fought? " 
She ask'd of Lancelot. " Ay, my Queen," 

he said. 
"And thou hast overthrown him?" "Ay, 

my Queen." 
Then she, turning to Pelleas, " O yoimg 

knight. 
Hath the great heart of knighthood in'thee 

fail'd 
So far thou canst not bide, unfrowardly, 
A fall from him ?" Then, for he answer'd not, 
" Or hast thou other griefs? If I, the Queen, 
May help them, loose thy tongue, and let me 

know." 
But Pelleas lifted up an eye so fierce 
She quail'd ; and he, hissing " I have no 

sword," 
Sprang from the door into the dark. The 

Queen 
Look'd hard upon her lover, he on her ; 
And each foresaw the dolorous day to be : 
And all talk died, as in a grove all song 
Beneath the shadow of some bird of prey. 
Then a long silence came upon the hall. 
And Modred thought, " The time is hard at 

hand" 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 

That story which the bold Sir I'edivere, 
First made and latest left of all the knights, 



Told, when the man was no more than a voice 
In the white winter of his age, to those 
With whom he dwelt, new facet, other minds. 

Before that last weird battle in the west 
There came on Arthur sleeping, Gawain 

kill'd 
In Lancelot's war, the ghost of Gawain blown 
Along a wandering wind, and past his ear 
Went shrilling, " Hollow, hollow all delight ! 
Hail, king ! to-morrow thou shalt pass away. 
Farewell ! there is an isle of rest for thee. 
And 1 am blown along a vrandering wind, 
And hollow, hollow, hollow all delight." 
And fainter onward like wild birds that 

change 
Their season in the night and wail their way 
From cloud to cloud, down the long wind the 

dream 
Shrill'd ; but in going mingled with dim 

cries 
Far in the moonlit haze among the hills, 
As of some lonely city sack'd by night. 
When all is lost, and wife and child with wail 
Pass to new lords ; and Arthur woke and 

call'd, 
" Who spake ? A dream. O light upon the 

wind. 
Thine, Gawain, was the voice — are these 

dim cries 
Thine ? or doth all that haunts the waste and 

wild 
Mourn, knowing it will go along with me ? " 

This heard the bold Sir Bedivere and 
spake : 
" O me, my king, let pass whatever will. 
Elves, and the harmless glamour of the field ; 
But in their stead thy name and glory cling 
To all high places like a golden cloud 
Forever : but as yet thou shalt not pass. 
Light was Gawain in life, and light in death 
Is Gawain, for the ghost is as the man ; 
And care not thou for dreams from him, but 

rise — 
I hear the steps of Modred in the west. 
And with him manyofthypeople.and knights 
Once thine, whom thou hast loved, but gross- 
er grown 
Than heathen, spitting at their vows and thee. 
Right well in heart they know thee for the 

King. 
Arise, go forth and conquer as of old." 

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere : 
" Far other is this battle m the west 
Whereto we move, than when we strove in 

youth. 
And thrust the heathen from the Roman 

wall. 
And shook him thro' the north. Ill doom is 

mine 
To war against my people and my knights. 
The king who fights his people fights himself. 
And they my kiiights, who loved me once, 

the stroke 
That strikes them dead is as my death to me. 
Yet let us hence, and find or feel a way 



4* m- IT 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 



26s 



Thro' this blind haze, which ever since I saw 
One lying in the dust at Almesbury, 
Haih folded in the passes of the world." 

Then rose the King and moved his-host by 

night, 
And ever push'd Sir Modred, league by 

league, 
Back to the sunset bound of Lyonnesse — 
A land of old upheaven from the abyss 
By fire, to sink nito the abyss again ; 
Where fragments of forgotten peoples dwelt. 
And the long mountains ended in a coast 
Of ever-shifting sand, and far away 
The phantom circle of a moaning sea. 
There the pursuer could pursue no more, 
And ha that fled no further fly the King ; 
And there, that day when the great light of 

heaven 
Burn'd at his lowest in the rolling year, 
On the waste sand by the waste sea they 

closed. 
Nor ever yet had Arthur fought a fight 
Like this last, dim, weird battle of the west. 
A deathwhite mist slept over sand and sea : 
Whereof the chill, to him who breathed it, 

drew 
Down with his blood, till all his heart was 

cold 
With formless fear; and ev'n on Arthur fell 
Confusion, since he saw not whom he fought. 
For friend and foe were shadows in the 

mist. 
And friend slew friend not knowing whom 

he slew ; 
And some had visions out of golden youth, 
And some beheld the faces of old ghosts 
Look in upon the battle ; and in the mist 
Was many a noble deed, many a base, _ 
And chance and craft and strength in single 

fights, 
And ever and anon with host to host 
Shocks, and the splintering spear, the hard 

mail hewn, 
Shield-breakings, and the clash of brands, 

the crash 
Of battleaxes on shatter'd helms, and shrieks 
After the Christ, of those who falling down 
Looked up for heaven, and only saw the 

mist ; 
And shouts of heathen and the traitor knights, 
Oaths, insult, filth, and monstrous blasphe- 
mies, 
Sweat, writhings, anguish, laboring of the 

lungs 
Tn that close mist, and cryings for the light. 
Moans of the dying, and voices of the dead. 

Last, as by some one death-bed after wail 
Of suffering, silence follows, or thro' death 
Or deathlike swoon, thus over all that shore. 
Save for some whisper of the seething seas, 
A dead hush fell ; but when the dolorous 

day 
Grew drearier toward twilight falling, came 
A bitter wind, clear from the North, and 

blew 
The mist aside, and with that wind the tide 



Rose, and the pale king glanced across the 

field 
Of battle : but no man was moving there; 
Nor any cry of Christian heard thereon, 
Nor yet of heathen ; only the wan wave 
Brake in among dead faces, to and fro 
Swaying the helpless hands, and up and down 
Tumbling the hollow helmet.s, of the fallen, 
And shiver'd brands that once had fought 

with Rome, 
And rolling far along the gloomy shores 
The voice of days of old and days to be. 

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere, 
And whiter than the mist tliat all day long 
Had held the field of battle was the King : 

" Hearest thou this great voice that 

shakes the world. 
And wastes the narrow realm whereon we 

move. 
And beats upon the faces of the dead. 
My dead, as tho' they had notdied for me ? — 
O Bedivere, for on my heart hath fall'n 
Confusion, till I know not what I am. 
Nor whence I am, nor whether I be king. 
Behold, I seem but king among the dead." 

Then spake the bold Sir Bedivere : " My 

King, 
King everywhere ! and so the dead have 

kings. 
There also will I worship thee as king. 
Yet still thy life is whole, and still I live 
Who love thee ; but who hates thee, he that 

brought 
The heathen back among us, yonder stands, 
Modred, unharm'd, the traitor of thine 

house." 

Then spake the King : " My house hath 

been my doom. 
But call not thou this traitor of my house 
Who hath but dwelt beneath one roof with me. 
My house are rather they who sware my 

vows. 
Yea, even whi\e they brake them, own'd me 

king. 
And well for thee, saying in my dark hour. 
When all the purport of my throne hath fail'd, 
That quick or dead thou boldest me for king. 
King am I, whatsoever be their cry ; 
And one last act of kinghood shalt thou see 
Yet, ere I pass." And uttering this the king 
Made at the man : then Modred smote his 

liege 
Hard on that helm, which many a heathen 

sword 
Had beaten thin ; while Arthur at one blow, 
Striking the last stroke with Excalibur, 
Slew him, and all but slain himself, he fell. 

So all day long the noise of battle roll'd 
Among the mountains by the winter sea ; 
Until King Arthur's Table, man by man. 
Had fall'n in Lyonnesse about their lord, 
King Arthur. I'hen, because his wound waa 
deep. 



266 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 



The bold Sir Berlivere uplifted him, 
And bore him to a chapel nigh the field, 
A broken chancel with a broken cross. 
That stood on a dark strait of barren land : 
On one side lay the Ocean, and on one 
Lay a great water, and the nioon was full. 

Then spake King Arthur to SirBedivere : 
" The sequel of to-day unsolders all 
Tlie goodliest fellowship of famous knights 
Whereof this world holds record. Such a 

sleep 
They sleep — the men I loved. I think that 

we 
Shall never more, at any future time. 
Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds, 
Walking about the gardens and the halls 
Of Camelot, as in the days that were. 
1 perish by this people which I made, — 
Tho' Merlin sware that I should come again 
To rule once more ; but let what will be, be. 
I am so deeply smitten thro' the helm 
That without help I cannot last till morn. 
Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur, 
Which was luy pride : for thou rememberest 

how 
In those old days, one summer noon, an arm 
Rose up from out the bosom of the lake, 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, 
Holding tlie sword — and how I row'd across 
And took it, and have worn it, like a king ; 
And, wheresoever I am sung or told 
In after time, this also shall be known : 
But now delay not : take Excalibur, 
And fling him far into the middle mere : 
Watch what thou seijst, and lightly bring me 
word." 

To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere : 
" It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee thus. 
Aidless, alone, and smitten thro" the helm — 
A little thing may harm a wounded man ; 
Yet I thy liest will all iierform at full. 
Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee 
word." 

So saying, from the ruin'd shrine he stept. 
And in the moon athwart the place of tombs. 
Where lay the mighty bonesof ancient men. 
Old knights, and over them the sea- wind sang 
Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, step- 
ping down 
By zigzag paths, and juts of pointed rock, 
Came on the shining levels of the lake. 

There drew he forth the brand Excalibur, 
And o'er him, drawing it, the winter moon. 
Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran 

forth 
And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt : 
For all the haft twinkled with diamond 

sparks, 
Myr'ads of topaz-lights, and jacinth-work 
Of subtlest jewelry. He gazed so long 
That bnthliis eyes were dazzled as he stood, 
This way and that dividing the swift mind, 
In act to throw : but at the last it seem'd 
Better to leave Kxcalibur conceal'd 



There in the many-knotted waterflags, 
That whistled stiff .md dry about the marge. 
.So strode he back slow to the wounded King. 

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere : 
" Hast thou perform'd my mission which J[ 

gave ? 
What is it thou hast seen? or what has 

heard?" 

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere: 
" I heard the ripple washing in the reeds. 
And the wild water lapping on the crag." 

To whom replied King Arthur, faint and 

pale : 
"Thouhastbetray'd thynature and thy name. 
Not rendering true answer, as beseem'd 
Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight : 
For surer sign had follow d, either hand, 
Or voice, or else a motion of the mere. 
This is a shameful thing for men to lie. 
Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again, 
As thou art lief and dear, and do the thing | 
I bade thee, watch, and lightly bring me [ 

word." ( 

Then went Sir Bedivere the second time ! 
Across the ridge, and paced beside tlie mere, ; 
Counting the dewy pebbles, fix'd in thought ; f 
But when he saw the wonder of the hilt, '. 
How curiously and strangely chased, he ; 

smote 
His palms together, and he cried aloud : 

" And if indeed I cast the brand away. 
Surely a precious thing, one worthy note, 
Should thus be lost forever from the earth. 
Which might have pleased the eyes of many 

men. 
What good should follow this, if this were 

done ? 
What harm, undone ? deep harm to disobey, 
Seeing obedience is the bond of rule. 
Were it well to obey then, if a king demand 
An act unprofitable, against himself? 
The King is sick, and knows not what he 

does. 
What record, or what relic of my lord 
Should be to after time, but empty breath 
And rumors of a doubt ? but were this kept, 
Stored in some treasure-house of mighty 

kings. 
Some one might show it at a joust of arms,' 
Saying, ' King Arthur's sword, Excalibur, 
Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake. 
Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps 
Upon the hidden bases of the hills.' 
So might some old man speak in the afler- 

time 
To all the people, winning reverence. 
But now much honor and much fame were 

lost." 

So spake he. clouded with his own conceit, 
And hid Excalibur the second time. 
And so strode back slow to the wounded 
King. 




■ ■ An arm 
Rose up from out the bosom of the lake, 
Clothed in while samite." 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 



267 



Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heav- 
ily: 
"• What is It thou hast seen ? or what hast 
heard ? " 

And answer tnade the bold Sir Bedlvere : 
" I heard the water iapping on the crag, 
And the long ripple washing in the reeds." 

To whom replied King Arthur, much in 

wrath : 
"Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue, 
Unknightly, traitor-hearted I Woe is me I 
Authority forgets a dying king. 
Laid widow'd of the power in his eye 
That bow'd the will. I see thee what thou 

art. 
For thou, the latest-left of all my knights 
In whom should meet the offices of all, 
rhou wouldst betray me for the precious 

hilt; 
Either from lust of gold, or like a girl 
Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes. 
Vet, for a man may fail in duty twice. 
And the third time may prosper, get thee 

hence : 
But, if thou spare to flmg Excalibur, 
I will arise and slay thee with ray hands." 

Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran. 
And, leaping down the ridges lightly, 

plunged 
Among the bulrush-beds, and clutch'd the 

sword. 
And strongly wheel'd and threw it. The 

great brand 
Made lightnings in the splendor of the moon. 
And flashing round and round, and whirl'd in 

an arch, 
Shot like a streamer of the northern mom. 
Seen where the moving isles of winter shock 
By night, with noises of the northern sea. 
So flash'd and fell the brand Excalibur: 
But ere he dipt the surface, rose ar, arm 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful. 
And caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd 

him 
Three times, and drew him under in the 

mere. 
And lightly went the other to the King. 

Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker 

breath : 
" Now see I by thine eyes that this Is done. 
Spaak out : what is it thou hast heard, or 

seen ? " 

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere : 
" Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the 

gems 
Should blind my purpose, for I never saw, 
Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die. 
Not tho' I live three lives of mortal men. 
So great a miracle as yonder hilt. 
Then with both hands I flung hira, wheeling 

him ; 
But when I look'd again, behold an arm. 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful. 



That caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd 

him 
Three times, and drew him under in the 

mere." 

And answer made King Arthur, breathing 

hard : 
" My end draws nigh ; 't is time that I were 

gone. 
Make broad thy shoulders to receive my 

weight. 
And bear me to the margin ; yet I fear 
My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die." 

So saying, from the pavement he half rose. 
Slowly, with pain, recljning on his arm. 
And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes 
As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere 
Remorsefully regarded thro' his tears. 
And would have spoken, but he found not 

words ; 
Then took with care, and kneeling on one 

knee. 
O'er both his shoulders drew the languid 

hands. 
And rising bore him thro' the place of tombs. 

But, as lie walk'd. King Arthur panted 

hard. 
Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed 
When all the house is mute. So sigh'd the 

King, 
Muttering and raurmuringat his ear, "Quick, 

quick ! 
I fear it is too late, and I shall die." 
But the other swiftly stroae from ridge to 

ridge. 
Clothed with his breath, and looking, as he 

walk'd. 
Larger than human on the frozen hills. 
He heard the deep behind him, and a cry 
Before. His own thought drove hira like a 

goad. _ 

Dry clash'd his harness in the icy caves ,! 

And barren chasms, and all to left and right j 
The bare black cliff clang'd round him, as he J 

based 
His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang 
Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed heels — 
And on a sudden, lo ! the level lake. 
And the long glories of the winter moon. 

Then saw they how there hove a dusky 

barge. 
Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stem. 
Beneath them ; and descending they were 

ware 
Tha' all the decks were dense with stately 

forms, 
Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream — 

by these 
Three Queens with crowns of gold : and from 

them rose 
A cry that shiver'd to the tingling stars. 
And, as it were one voice, an agony 
Of lamentation, like a wind that shrills 
All night in a waste land, where noone comes. 
Or hath come, since the making of the world. 



26R 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 



Then imirmur'd Arthur, " Place me in the 
barge " ; 
So to the barge ihey came. There those 

three Queens 
Put forth their hands, and took the King, and 

wept. 
But she, that rose the tallest of them all 
And fairest, laid his head upon her lap, 
And loosed the shatter'd casque, and chafed 

his hands, 
And call'd him by his name, complaining 

loud, 
And dropping bitter tears against his brow 
Striped with dark blood : for all his face was 

white 
And colorless, and like the wither'd moon 
Smote by the fresh beam of the springing 

east ; 
And all his greaves and cuisses dash'd with 

drops 
Of onset ; and the light and lustrous curls — 
'I'hat made his forehead like a rising sun 
High from the dais throne — were parch'd 

with dust ; 
Or, clotted into points and hanging loose, 
Mix'd with the knightly growth that fringed 

his lips 
So like a shatter'd column lay the King ; 
Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest. 
From spur to plume a star of tournament. 
Shot thro' the lists at Camelot, and charged 
Before the eyes of ladies and of kings. 

Then loud!y cried the bold Sir Redivere : 
" Ah ! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go? 
Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes.' 
For now t see the true old times are dead. 
When every morning brought a roble chance, 
And every chance biougm out a noble knight. 
Such times have been not since the light that 

led 
The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh. 
But now the whole Round Table is dissolved 
Wliich was an image of the mighty world ; 
And I, the last, go forth companionless. 
And the days darken round me, and the years, 
Among new men, strange faces,otlierminds." 

And slowly answered Arthur from the 

barge : 
" The old order changeth, yielding place to 

new, 
And God fulfils himself in many ways, 
Lest one good custom should corrupt the 

world. 
Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me? 
1 have lived my life, and that which 1 have 

done 
M.iy He within himself make pure 1 but thou, 
1 ( thou shouldst never see my face again. 
Pray for my soul. More things are wrought 

by prayer 
Thau this world dreams of. Wherefore, let 

thy voice 
Kise like a fountain for me night and day. 
I'or what are men better than sheep or goats 



That nourish a blind life within the brain. 
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer 
Both for themselves and those who call them 

friend ? 
For so the whole round earth is every way 
Bound by gold' chains about the feet of God. 
But now fare\ -ell. I am going a long way 
With these thou seest — if indeed I go 
( F'or all my mind is clouded wit h a doubt) — 
'I'o the island-valley of Avilion ; 
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow, 
Nor ever wind blows loudly ; but it lies 
Deep meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard- 
lawns 
And bowery hollows crown'd with summer 

sea, 
Where I will heal me of my grievous 
wound." 

So said he, and the barge with oar and sail 
Moved from the brink, like some full-breast- 
ed swan 
That, fluting a wild carol ere her death. 
Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the 

flood 
With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedi- 

vere 
Revolving many memories, till the hull 
Look'd one black dot against the verge of 

dawn. 
And on the mere the wailing died away. 

At length he groan'd, and turning slowly 

clomb 
The last hard footstep of that iron crag ; 
Thence niark'd the black hull moving yet, 

and cried, 
" He passes to be king among the dead. 
And after healing of his grievous wound 
He comes again ; but — if become no more — 
O me, be yon dark Queens in yon black boat. 
Who shrlek'd and wail'd, the three whereat 

we gazed 
On that high day, when, clothed with living 

light. 
They stood before his throne in silence, 

friends 
Of Arthur, who should help him at his need?" 

Then from the dawn it seem'd there came, 
but faint 
As from beyond the limit of the world. 
Like the last echo born of a great cry. 
Sounds, as if some fair city were one voice 
Around a king returning from his wars. 

Thereat once more he moved about, and 

clomb 
E'en to the highest he could climb, and saw. 
Straining his eyes beneath an arch of hand. 
Or thought he saw, the speck that bare the 

king, 
Down that long water opening on the deep 
.Somewhere far off, pass on and on, and go 
From less to less and v,inish into light. 
And the new »un rose bringing the new year. 



NORTHERN FARMER. 



269 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



NORTHERN FARMER- 
NEW STYLB. 
I. 

Dosn't thou 'ear my 'erse's legs, as they 

canters awnSy ? 
Proputty, propiitty, proputty — that 's what 

I 'ears 'em saSy. 
Proputty, proputty, proputty — Sam, thou 's 

an ass for thy paa'i'ns : 
Theei 's moor sense i' one o' 'is legs nor in 

all thy braains. 



Woa — theer 's a crawto pluck wi' tha, Sam : 

yon 's parson's 'ouse — 
Dosn't thou kiiaw that a man mun be eiither 

a man or a mouse ? 
Time to think on it then ; for thou '11 be 

twenty to weeak.* 
Proputty, proputty — woa then woa — let ma 

'ear niysen speak. 

III. 
Me an' thy muther, Sammy, 'as bean 

a-talkin' o' thee ; 
Thou 's been talkin' to muther, an' she bean 

a tellin' it me. 
Thou 'II not marry for munny — thou 's sweet 

upo' parson's lass — 
Noa — thou '11 marry fur luvv — an' we boath 

on us thinks tha an ass. 

IV. 

Seea'd her todaay goa by — Saaint's-daay 

— they was ringing the bells. 

She's a beauty thou thinks — an' soa is 

scoors o' gells. 
Them .IS 'as munny an' all — wot 's a beauty ? 

— the flower as blaws. 

But proputty, proputty sticks, an' proputty, 
proputty graws. 



Do'ant be stunt : \ taSke time : I knaws 

what niaakes tha Si mad. 
VVarn't I craaz^d fur the lasses mysan when 

I wur a lad ? 
15jt I knaw'd a Quaaker feller as often 'as 

towd ma this : 
"Doantthou marry for munny, butgoa wheer 

munny is ! " 



An' I went wheer munny war : an' thy mother 

cooMi to 'and, 
Wi' lots o' munny laaid by, an' a nicetish bit 

o' land. 



Thi3 wccic 



t Obstinate. 



Maaybe she wani't a beauty : — I niver giv 

it a thowt — 
But warn't she as good to cuddle an' kiss as 

a lass as 'ant nowt ? 



Parson's lass 'ant nowt, an' she weant 'a 
nowt when 'e 's dead, 

Mun be a guvness, lad, or summut, and ad- 
dle * her bread : 

Why ? fur 'e 's nobbut a curate, an' weant 
nivir git naw 'igher ; 

An' 'e maade the bed as 'e ligs on afoor 'e 
coom'd to the shire. 



And thin 'e coom'd to the parish wi' lots o' 
'Varsity debt, 

Stook to his ta.iil they did, an' 'e 'ant got 
shut on 'em yet. 

An' 'e ligs on 'is back i' the grip, wi' noan to 
lend 'im a shove, 

Woorse nor a far-welter'd t yowe : fur, Sam- 
my, 'e married fur luvv. 



Luvv ? What 's luvv ? thou can luvv thy 

lass an' 'er munny too, 
Maakin' 'em go.ii togither as they 've good 

right to do. 
Could'n I luvv thy muther by cause o' 'er 

munny laaid by ? 
Naay — fur I luvv'd 'er a vast sight moor 

fur it : reason why. 



Ay an' thy muther says thou wants to marry 

the lass, 
Cooms of a gentleman bum : an' we boath 

on us thinks tha an ass. 
Woa then, proputty, wiltha? — an ass as 

near as mays nowt t — 
Woa then, wiltha ? dangtha 1 — the bees is as 

fell as owt. § 



Break me a bit o' the esh for his 'ead, lad, 

out o' the fence ! 
Gentleman bum! what's gentleman burni 

is it shillins an' pence? 
Proputty, proputty 's ivrything 'ere, an', 

Sammy, I 'm blest 
If it isn't the saame oop yonder, fur them as 

'as it 's the best. 

• Earn. 

t Or fow-welter'd — said of a sheep lying on itt 
brick in the furrow. 
1 Makes nntiiing. 
g The flies are as fierce as anything: 



THE VICTIM. 



Tis'n them as 'as munny as breaks into 

'ouses an' steals, 
Thera as 'as coats to their backs an' taaikes 

their regular meals. 
Noa, but it 's them as uiver knaws wheer a 

meal 's to be 'ad. 
Taake my word for it, Sammy, the poor in 

a loomp is bad. 



Them or thir feythers, tha sees, mun 'a 

bean a laazy lot, 
Fur work mun 'a gone to the gittin' whin- 

iver munny was got. 
Fevther 'ad am most nowt; least waays 'is 

munny was 'id. 
But 'e tued an' moil'd 'issen dead, an 'edied 

a good un, 'e did. 



Loook thou theer wheer Wrigglesby beck 

comes out by the 'ill ! 
Feyther run up to the farm, an' I runs up 

to the mill ; 
An' I '11 run up to the brig, an' that thou '11 

live to see ; 
And if thou marries a good un I '11 leave the 

land to thee. 



Thim 's my noations, Sammy, wheerby I 

means to stick ; 
Cut if thou marries a bad un, I '11 leave the 

land to Dick. — 
Coom oop, proputty, proputty — that 's 

what I 'ears 'im saay — 
Proputty, proputty, proputty — canter an' 

canter awaay. 



THE VICTIM. 



A Pt-AGUE upon the people fell, 
A famine after laid them low, 
Then thorpe and byre arose in fire, 

For on them brake the sudden foe ; 
So thick they died the people cried, 

" The Gods are moved against the land.' 
The Priest in horror about his altar 
To Thor and Odin lifted a hand : 
" Help us from famine 
And plague and strife ! 
What would you have of us? 
Human life ? 
Were it our nearest. 
Were it our dearest, 
(Answer, () answer) 
We give you his life." 



But still the fneman spoii'd and bum'd, 
And cattle died, and deer in wood, 



And bird in air, and fishes tnm'd 

And whiten'd all the roUmg Hood; 
And dead men lay all over the way, 

Or down in a furrow scathed with flame : 
And ever and aye the Priesthood nioan'd 
Till at last it seem'd that an answer came: 
" The King is happy 
In child and wife ; 
Take you his dearest. 
Give us a life." 



The Priest went out by heath and hill ; 

The Kmg was hunting in the wild ; 
They found the mother sitting still ; 
She cast her arms about the child. 
The child was only eight summers old. 

His beauty still with his years increased; 
His face was ruddy, his hair was gold. 
He seem'd a victim due to the priest. 
The Priest beheld him. 
And cried with joy, 
"The Gods have answer'd: 
We give them the boy." 



The King return'd from out the wild, 

He bore but little game in hand ; 
The mother said : " They have taken tha 
child 
To spill his blood and heal the land : 
The land is sick, the people diseased. 

And blight and famine on all the lea : 
The holy Gods, they must be appeased. 
So 1 pray you tell the truth to me. 
They have taken our son. 
They will have his life. 
Is he your dearest? 
Or I the wife ? " 



The King bent low, with hand on brow. 

He stay'd his arms upon his knee : 
"(J wife, what use to answer now? 

For now the Priest has judged for me." 
The King was shaken with holy fear; 
" The Gods," he said, " would have chos- 
en well ; 
Yet both are near, and both are dear, 
And which the nearest I cannot tell 1" 
Hut the Priest was happy, 
His victim won : 
" We have his dearest. 
His only son 1" 



The rites prepared, the victim bared. 

The kniie uprising toward the blow. 
To the altar-stone she sprang alone, 

" Me, not my darling, no 1 " 
He caught her away with a sudden cry ; 

Suddenly from him brake his wife. 
And shrieking, "/ am his dearest, 1 — 

/ am his dearest ! " rush'd on the knife. 
And the Priest was happy, 
'• O Father Odin. 



IHE HIGHER PA NTH E ISM. — L UCRE TIUS. 



271 



We give you a life. 
Wliicli was his nearest? 
Who waslHsdL-.ueM? 
The Gods have answer'd ; 
We give them the wife ! " 



WAGES. 

Glory of warrior, glory of orator, glory of 

song, 
Paid with a voice flying by to be lost on an 

endless sea — 
Glory of Virtue, to fight, to struggle, to right 

the wrong — 
Nay, but slie aim'd not at glorj', no lover 

of glory she : 
Give her the glory of going on, and still 

to be. 

The wages of sin is death : if the wages of 
Virtue be dust, 
Would she have heart to endure for the life 
of the worm and the Hy? 
She desires no isles of the blest, no quiet seats 
of the just. 
To restjn a golden grove, or to bask in a 
summer sky : 
Give her the wages of going on, and not to die. 



THE HIGHER PANTHEISM. 

The sun, the moon, the stars, the seas, the 

hills and the plains — 
Are not these, O Soul, the Vision of Him 

who reigns ? 

Is not the Vision He ? tho' He be not that 

which He seems? 
Dreams are true while they last, and do we 

not live in dreams ? 

Earth, these solid stars, this weight of body 

and limb. 
Are they not sign and symbol of thy division 

from Him ? 

Dark is the world to thee : thyself art the rea- 
son why ? 

For is He not all but thou, that hast power 
to feel "I am I ? " 

Glory about thee, without thee ; and thou 

fulfillest thy doom, 
Making Him broken gleams, and a stifled 

splendor and gloom. 

Speak to Him thou for He hears, and Spirit 

with Spirit can meet — 
L'loser is He than breathing, and nearer than 
hands and feet. 

God is law. say the wise ; O Soul, and.let us 

rejfiice. 
For if He thunder by law the thunder is yet 

His voice. 



Law is God, say some : no God at all, says 

the fool ; 
For all we have power to see is a straight staff 

bent in a pool ; 

And the ear of man cannot hear and the eye 

of man cannot see ; 
But if we could see and hear, this Vision — 

were it not He ? 



Flower in the crannied wall, 

I pluck you out of the crannies , — 

Hoid you here, root and all, in my hand. 
Little flower — but if I could understand 

What you are, root and all, and all in all, 
I should know what God and man is. 



LUCRETIUS. 

LuciLiA, wedded to Lucretius, found 

Her master cold ; for when the morning 

flush 
Of passion and the first embracs had died 
Between them, tho' he loved her none the 

less. 
Yet often when the woman heard his foot 
Return from pacings in the field, and ran 
To greet him with a kiss, the master look 
Small notice, or austerely, for — his mind 
Half buried in some weightier argument, 
Or fancy-borne perhaps upon the rise 
And long roll of the Hexameter — he past 
To turn and ponder those three hundred 

scrolls 
Left by the Teacher whom he held divine. 
She brook'd it not ; but wrathful, petulant. 
Dreaming some rival, sought and found a 

witch 
Whobrew'd the philtre which had power, 

they said. 
To lead an errant passion home again. 
And this, at times, she mingled with his 

drink. 
And thisdestroy'd him ; for the wicked broth 
Confused the chemic labor of the blood, 
And tickling the brute brain within the man's 
Made havoc among those tender cells, and 

check'd 
His power to shape : he loath'd himself; 

and once 
After a tempest woke upon a mom 
That mock'd him with returning calm, and 

cried : 

" Storm in the night ! for thrice I heard 
the rain 

Rushing ; and once the flash of a thunder- 
bolt— 

Methought I never saw so fierce a fork — 

Struck out the streaming mountain-side, a»-d 
show'd 

A riotous confluence of watercourses 



872 



LUCRETIUS. 



Blanching and billowing in a hollow of it, 
Where all but yester-eve was dusty-dry. 

" Storm, and what dreams, ye holy Gods, 
what dreams ! 
' For thrice I waken'd after dreams. Per- 
chance 
We do but recollect the dreams that come 
Just ere the waking : terrible ! for it seem'd 
A void was made in Nature ; all her bonds 
Crnck'd : and I saw the flaring atom-streams 
And torrents of her myriad universe, 
Ruining along the illimitable inane. 
Fly on to clash together again, and make 
Another and another frame of things 
Forever : that was mine, my dream, 1 knew it 
Of and belonging to me, as the dog 
With inward yelp and restless forefoot plies 
His function of the woodland : but the next ! 
I thought that all the blood by Sylla shed 
Came driving rainlike down again on earth, 
And where it dash'd the reddening meadow, 

sprang 
No dragon warriors from Cadmean teeth, 
For these I thought my dream would show 

to me. 
But girls, Hetairai, curious in their art. 
Hired animalisms, vile as those that made 
The mulberry-faced Dictator's orgies worse 
Than aught they fable of the qniet Gods. 
And hands they mixt, and yell'd and round 

me drove 
In narrowing circles till I yell'd again 
Half suffocated, and sprang up, and saw — 
Was it the first beam of my latest day? 

j " Then. then, from utter gloom stood out 

J the breasts. 

The breasts of Helen, and hoveringly a sword 
Now over and now under, now direct. 
Pointed itself to pierce, but sank down 

shamed 
At all that beauty ; and as I stared, a fire. 
The fire that left a roofless Ilion, 
Shot out of them, and scorch'd me that I 
woke. 

" Is this thy vengeance, holy Venus, thine, 
Because I would not one of thine own doves, 
Not ev'n a rose, were offer'd to thee ? thine, 
Forgetful how my rich prooemion makes 
Thy glory fly along the Italian field. 
In lays that will outlast thy Deity ? 

"Deity? nay, thy worshippers. My tongue 
Trips, or I speak profanely. Which of these 
Angers thee most, or angers thee at all ? 
Not if thou be'st of those who, far aloof 
From envy, hate and pity, and spite and 

scorn. 
Live the great life which all our greatest fain 
Would follow, centr'd in eternal cairn. 

I" Nay, if thou canst, O Goddess, like our- 
selves 
Touch, and be touch'd, then would I cry to 

thee 
To kiss thy Mayors, roll thy tender arms 



Round him, and keep him from the lust ot 

blood 
That makes a steaming slaughter-house of 

Rome. 

" Ay, but I meant not thee ; I meant not 

her, 
Whom all the pines of Ida shook to see 
Slide from that quiet heaven of hers, and 

tempt 
The Trojan, while his neat-herds were 

abroad ; 
Nor her that o'er her wounded hunter wept 
Her Deity false in human-amorous tears; 
Nor whom her beardless apple-arbiter 
Decided fairest. Rather, O ye Ciods, 
Poet-like, as the great Sicilian called 
Calliope to grace his golden verse — 
Ay, and this Kypris also — did I take 
I'hat popular name of thine to shadow rorth 
The all-generating powers and genial heat 
Of Nature, when she strikes thro' the thick 

blood 
Of cattle, and light is large, and lambs are 

glad 
Nosing the mother's udder, and the bird 
Makes his heart voice amid the blaze of 

flowers : 
Which thin"? aooear the work of mighty 

Gods.~ 

" The Gods ! and if I go my work is left 
Unfinish'd — if\ go. The Gods, who haunt 
The lucid interspace of world and world. 
Where never creeps a cloud, or moves a wind, 
Nor ever falls the least white star of snow, 
Nor ever lowest roll of thunder moans. 
Nor sound of human sorrow mounts to mar 
Their sacred everlasting calm ! and such. 
Not all so fine, nor so divine a calm. 
Not such, nor all unlike it, man may gain 
Letting his own life go. The Gods, the 

Gods ! 
If all be atoms, how then should the Gods 
Being atomic not be dissoluble. 
Not follow the great law ? My master held 
That Gods there are, for all men so believe. 
I prest my footsteps into his, and meant 
Surely to lead my Memmius in a train 
Of flowery clauses onward to the proof 
That Gods there are, and deathless. Meant? 

I meant ? 
I have forgotten what I meant : my mind 
Stumbles, and all my faculties are lamed. 

" Look where another oi our Gods, the 

Sun, 
Apollo, Delius, or ot older use 
All-seeing Hyperion — what you will — 
Has mounted yonder ; since he never sware. 
Except his wrath were wreak'd on wretched 

man. 
That he would only shine among the dead 
Hereafter ; tales ! for never yet on earth 
Could dead flesh creep, or bits of roasting ox 
Moan round the spit — nor knows he what 

he sees ; 
King of the East altho' he seem, and girt 



LUCRETIUS. 



273 



With song and flame and fragrance, slowly 

lifts 
His golden feet on those empurpled stairs 
That climb into the windy halls of heaven : 
And liere he glances on an eye new-born, 
And gets for greeting but a wail of pain ; 
And here he stays upon a freez-itig orb 
That fain would gaze upon him to the last ; 
And here upon a yellow eyelid fall'n 
And closed by those who mourn a friend in 

vain, 
Not thankful that his troubles are no more. 
And me, altho' his tire is on my face 
Blinding, he sees not, nor at all can tell 
Whether I mean this day to end myself, 
Or lend an ear to Plato where he says, 
That men like soldiers may not quit the post 
Allotted by the Gods: but he that holds 
The Gods are careless, wherefore need he care 
Greatly for them, nor rather plunge at once. 
Being troubled, wholly out of sight, and sink 
Past earthquake — ay, and gout and stone, 

that break 
Body toward death, and palsy, death-in-life. 
And wretched age — and worst disease of all, 
These prodigies of myriad nakednesses, 
And twisted shapes of lust, unspeakable, 
Abominable, strangers at my hearth 
Not welcome, harpies miring every dish. 
The phantom husks of something foullydone, 
And fleeting thro' the boundless universe, 
And blasting the long quiet of my breast 
With animal heat and dire insanity? 

" How should the mind, except it loved 

them, clasp 
These idMs to herself? or do they fly 
Now thinner, and now thicker, like the flakes 
In a fall of snow, and so press m, perforce 
Of multitude, as crowds that ni an hour 
Of civic tumult jam the doors, and bear 
The keepers down, and throng, their rags and 

they. 
The basest, far into that council-hall 
Where sit the best and stateliest of the land? 

" Can I not fling this horror off me again. 
Seeing with how great ease Nature can smile. 
Balmier and nobler from her bath of storm. 
At random ravage ? and how easily 
The mountain there has cast his cloudy 

slough. 
Now towering o'er him in serenest air, 
A mountain o'er a mountain, — ay, and 

within 
All hollow as the hopes and fears of men. 

" But who was he, that in the garden 

snared 
Picus and F'aunus, rustic Gods? a tale 
To laugh at — more to laugh at in myself — 
For look ! what is it ? there ? yon arbutus 
Totters ; a noiseless riot underneath 
Strikes through the wood, sets all the tops 

quivering — 
The mountain quickens into Nymph and 

Faun ; 
And here an Oread — how the sun delights 



To glance and shift abou*. her slippery sides, 
And rosy knees and supple roundeduess. 
And budded bosom-peaks — who this way 

runs 
Before the rest — A satyr, a satyr, see. 
Follows; but him I proved impossible ; 
Twy-natured is no nature : yet he draws 
Nearer and nearer, and I scan him now 
Beastlier than any phantom of his kind 
That ever butted his rough brother-brute 
For lust or lusty blood or provender : 
1 hate, abhor, spit, sicken at him ; and she 
Loathes him as well ; such a precipitate heel, 
Fledged as it were with Mercury's ankle- 
wing. 
Whirls her to me : but will she fling herself, 
Shameless upon me? Catch her, goatfoat : 

nay. 
Hide, hide them, million-myrtled wilderness, 
And cavern-shadowing laurels, hide ! do I 

wish — 
What ? — that the bush were leafless ? or to 

whelm 
All of them in one massacre ? O ye Gods, 
I know you careless, yet, behold, to you 
From childly wont and ancient use I call — 
I thought I lived securely as yourselves — 
No lewdness, narrowing envy, monkey-spite, 
No madness of ambition, avarice, none : 
No larger feast than under plane or pine 
With neighbors laid along the grass, to take 
Only such cups as left us friendly-warm, 
Affirming each his own philosophy — 
Nothing to mar the sober majesties 
Ofsettled, sweet. Epicurean life. 
But now it seems some unseen monster 

lays 
His vast and filthy hands upon my will, 
Wrenching it backward into his : and spoils 
My bliss in being ; and it was not great ; 
For save whenshuttingreasons up in rhythm, 
Or Heliconian honey in living words, 
To make a truth less harsh, I often grew 
Tired of so much within ourlittle life. 
Or of so little in our little life — 
Poor little life that toddles half an hour 
Crown'd with a flower or two, and there an 

end — 
And since the nobler pleasure seems to fade, 
Why should I, beastlike as I find myself. 
Not manlike end myself? — our privilege — 
What beast has heart to do it ? And what 

man. 
What Roman would be dragg'd in triumph 

thus ? 
Not I ; not he, who bears one name with her. 
Whose death-blow struck the dateless doom 

of kings. 
When brooking not the Tarqnin in her veins. 
She made her blood in sight of CoUatine 
And all his peers, flushing the guiltless air, 
Spout from the maiden fountain in her heart. 
And from it sprang the Commonwealth, 

which breaks 
As I am breaking now 1 

" And therefore now 
Let lier, that is the womb and tomb of all. 



274 



THE GOLDEN SUPPER. 



Great Nature, take, and forcing far apart 
Those blind beginnings that have made me 

man 
Dash them anew together at lier will 
Through all her cycles — into man once 

more, 
Or beast or bird or fish, or opulent flower : 
But till this cosmic order everywhere 
Shatter'd into one earthquake in one day 
Cracks all to pieces, — aiidthathourperhaps 
Is not so far when momentary man 
Shall seem no more a something to himself. 
But he, his hopes and hates, his homes and 

fanes. 
And even hisboneslorglaid within the grave, 
The very sides of the grave itself shall pass. 
Vanishing, atom and void, atom and void, 
Into the unseen forever, — till that hour, 
My golden work in which 1 told a cruth 
That stays the rolling Ixionian wheel. 
And numbs the Fury's ringlet-snake, and 

plucks 
The mortal soul from out immortal hell. 
Shall stand : ay, surely : then it fails at 

last 
And perishes as I must ; for O Thou, 
Passionless bride, divine Tranquillity, 
Yearn'd after by the wisest of the wise. 
Who fail to find thee, being as thou art 
Without one pleasure and witliout one pain, 
Howbeit 1 know thou surely musfbe mine 
Or soon or laic, yet out of season, thus 
I woo thee roughly, for thou caiest not 
How roughly inen may woo thee so they 

win — 
Thus — thus : the soul flies out and dies in the 

air." 

With that he drove the knife into his side : 
She heard him raging, heard him fall ; ran 

in, 
Beat breast, tore hair, cried out upon her- 
self 
As having fail'd in duty to him, shriek'd 
That she but meant to win him back, fell on 

him, 
Clasp'd, kiss'd him, wail'd : he answer'd, 

" Care not thou ! 
Tliy duty ? What is duty ? Fare thee well I " 



THE GOLDEN SUPPER. 

\This poem is founded upon a story in Boccac- 
cio. 

A young lover, Julian, whose cousin and foster- 
sister, Cnniilla, has l)een wedded to his friend and 
rival, l^ionel, endeavors to narrate the story of ills 
own love for her, and the strange secjuel of it. He 
speaks of having been haunted in delirium by vis- 
ions and the sound of bells, sometimes tolling for 
a funeral, and at last ringing for a marriage : but 
he breaks away, overcome, as he approaches the 
Event, and a witness to it completes the tale.] 

* * ♦ * # 

He flies the event : he leaves the event to 

me : 
Poor Julian — how he rush'd away; the 

bells, 



Those marriage-bells, echoing in ear and 

heart — 
But cast a parting glance at me, you saw. 
As wlio should say "continue." Well, he 

had 
One golden hour — of triumph shall I say? 
Solace at least — before he left his home. 

Would you had seen him in that hour of 

his ! 
He moved thro' all of it majestically — 
Restrain'd himself quite to the close — but 

now — 

Whether they were his lady's marriage- 
bells, 
Or prophets of them in his fantasy, 
I never ask'd : but Lionel and the girl 
Were wedded, and our Julian came again 
Back to his mother's house among the pines. 
But there, their gloom, the mountains and 

the Ray, 
The w hole land weigh'd him down as ^tna 

. does 
The Giant of Mylholo.gy : he would go, 
Would leave the land forever, and had gone 
Surely, but for a whisper " Go not yet," 
Some warning, and divinely as it seem'd 
f!y that which follow'd — but of this I deem 
As of the visions that he told — the event 
Glanced back upon them in his after life. 
And partly made them — tho' lie knew it not. 

And thus he stay'd and would not look at 

her — 
No not for months : but, when the eleventh 

moon 
After their marriage lit the lover's Bay, 
Heard yet once more the tolling bell, and 

said, 
Would you could toll me out of life, but 

found — 
All softly as his mother broke it to him — 
A crueller reason than a crazy ear. 
For that low knell tolling his lady dead — 
Dead — and had Iain three days without a 

pulse : 
All that look'd on her had pronounced her 

dead. 
And so they bore her (for in Julian's land 
They never nail a dumb head up in elm). 
Bore her free-faced to the free airs of heaven, 
And laid her in the vault of her own kin. 

What did he then ? not die : he is here and 

hale — 
Not plunge headforemost from the mountain 

there. 
And leave the name of Lover's Leap: not 

he: 
He knew the meaning of the whisper now. 
Thought that he knew it. " This, I stay'd 

for this ; 

love, I liave not seen you for so Jong. 
Now, now, will I go down into the grave, 

1 will be all alone, with all I love. 

And kiss her on the lips. She is his no 
more : 



THE GOLDEN SUPPER. 



275 



The dead returns to me, and I go down 
To kiss the dead." 

The fancy stirr'd him so 
He rose and. went, and entering the dim 

vault. 
And, making there a sudden liglit beheld 
All round about him that wliich all will be. 
The light was but a flash, and went again. 
Then at the far end of the vault he saw 
His lady with the moonlight on her face ; 
Her breast as in a shadow-prison, bars 
Of black and bands of silver, which the moon 
Struck from an open grating overhead 
High in the wall, and all the rest of her 
D'own'din the gloom and horror of the vault. 

" It was ray wish," he said, " to pass, to 

sleep. 
To rest, to be with her — till the great day 
Peal'don us with that music which rights all, 
And raised us hand in hand." And kneeling 

there 
Down in the dreadful dust that once was man. 
Dust, as he said, that once was loving hearts, 
Hearts that had beat with such a love as 

mine — 
Not such as mine, no, nor for such as her — 
He softly put his arm about her neck 
And kiss'd her more than once, till helpless 

death 
And silence made him bold — nay, but I 

wrong kim. 
He reverenced his dear lady even in death ; 
]!ut, (ilacing his true hand upon her heart, 
" U, you warm heart," he moan'd, " not even 

death 
Can chill you all at once": then starting, 

thought 
His dreams had come again. " Do I wake or 

sleep ? 
Or am I made immortal, or my love 
Mortal once more ? " It beat — the heart — 

it beat : 
Faint — but it beat : at which his own began 
To pulse with such a vehemence that it 

drown'd 
The feebler motion underneath his hand. 
But when at last his doubts were satisfied. 
He raised her softly from the sepulchre. 
And, virrapping her all over with the cloak 
He came in, and now striding fast, and now 
Sittnig awhile to rest, but evermore 
Holding his golden burthen in his arms. 
So bore her thro' the solitary land 
Back to the mother's house where she was 

bom. 

There the good mother's kindly minister- 

With half a night's appliances, re.:all'd 
Her fluttering life : she raised an eye that 

ask'd 
" Wliere?" till the things familiar to her youth 
Had made a silent answer ; then she spoke, 
" Here ! and how came I here ? " and learning 

it 
(They told her somewhat raslily as I think) 



At once began to wander and to wail, 

" Ay, but you know that you must give me 

back : 
Send ! bid him come " ; but Lionel was away 
Stung by his loss had vanish'd, none knew 

where. 
" He casts me out," she wept, " and goes" 

— a wail 
That seeming something, yet was nothing, 

born 
Not from believing mind, but shatter'd nerve, 
Yet haunting Julian, as her own reproof 
At some precipitance in her burial. 
Then, when her own true spirit had retum'd, 
"O yes, and you," she said, "and none but 

you. 
For you have given me life and love again. 
And none but you yourself shall tell him of it. 
And you shall give me back when he returns.' 
" Stay then a little," answer'd Julian, " here. 
And keep yourself, none knowing, to your- 
self; 
And I will do your will. I may not stay. 
No, not an hour ; but send me notice of him 
When he returns, and then will I return. 
And I will make a solemn offering of you 
To him you love." And faintly she replied, 
" And I will do yoiir will, and none shall 

know." 

Not know ? with such a secret to be known. 
But all their house was old and loved them 

bolh. 
And all the house had known the loves of 

both : 
Had died almost to serve them any wa)', 
And all the land was waste and solitary : 
And then he rode away ; but after this, 
An hour or two, Camilla's travail came 
Upon her, and that day a boy was bom, 
Heir of his face and land, to Lionel. 

And thus our lonely lover rode away,. 
And pausing at a hostel in a marsh. 
There fever seized upon him : myself was 

then 
Travelling that land, and meant to rest an 

hour ; 
And sitting down to such a base repast, 
It makes me angry yet to speak of it — 
I heard a groaning overhead, and climb'd 
Themoulder'd stairs (for everythingwas vile) 
And in a loft, with none to wait on him. 
Found, as it seera'd, a skeleton alone, 
Raving of dead men's dust and beating 

hearts. 

A dismal hostel in a dismal land, 
A flat inalarian world of reed and rush ! 
But there from fever and my care of him 
Sprang up a friendship that may help us yet 
For while we roam'd along the dreary coast, 
And waited for her message, piece by piece 
I learnt the drearier story of his life ; 
And, tho' he loved and honor'd Lionel, 
Found that the sudden wail his lady made 
Dwelt in his fancy : did he know her worth, 
Her beauty even ? should he not be taught. 



376 



THE GO L DEM SUPPEK. 



Ev'n by the price that others set upon it, 
The value of that jewel he had to guard ? 

Suddenly came her notice and we past, 
I with our lover to his native Bay. 

This love is of the braiu, the mind, the 

soul : 
That makes the sequel pure ; tho' some of 

us 
Beginning at the sequel know no more. 
Not such am I : and yet I say, the bird 
That will not hear my call, however sweet. 
But if my neighbor whistle answers hmi — 
What matter.' there are others in the wood. 
Yet when I saw her (and I thought him 

crazed, 
Tho' not with such ii crazmess as needs 
A cell and keeper), those dark eyes of hers — 
Oh ! such dark eyes ! and not her eyes alone. 
But all from these to where she touch'd on 

earth. 
For such a craziness as Julian's seem'd 
No less than one divine apology. 

So sweetly and so modestly she came 
To greet us, her young hero in her arms ! 
" Kiss him," she said. " You gave me life 

again. 
He, but for you, liad never seen it once. 
His other father you ! Kiss him, and then 
Forgive him, if his name be Julian too." 

Talk of lost hopes and broken heart I his 
own 
Sent such a flame into his face, I knew 
Some sudden vivid pleasure hit him there. 

Rut he was all the more resolved to go, 
And sent at once to Lionel, praying him 
By that great love they both had borne the 

dead, 
To come and revel for one hour with him 
Before he left the land forevermore ; 
And then to friends — they were not many — 

who lived 
Scatteringly about that lonely land of his, 
And bade them to a banquet of farewells. 

And Julian made a solemn feast ; I never 
Sat at a costlier ; for all round his hall 
From column on to column, as in a wood, 
Not such as here — an equatorial one. 
Great garlands swung and blosscmi'd ; and 

beneath. 
Heirlooms, and ancient miracles of Art, 
Chalice and salver, wines that. Heaven 

knows when. 
Had suck'd the fire of some forgotten sun. 
And kept it thro' a hundred years of gloom. 
Yet glowing in a heart of ruby — cups 
Where nymph and god ran ever round in 

gold — 
Others of glass as costly — some with gems 
Movable and resettable at will. 
And trebling all the rest in value — Ah 

heavens ! 
Why need I tell you all ? — suffice to say 



That whatsoever such a house as his, 
And his was old, has in it rare or fair 
Was brought before the guest : and they, tlie 

guests, 
Wonder'd at some rtrange light in Julian's 

eyes 
(I told you that he had his golden hoiir\ 
And such a feast, ill-suited as it seem d 
To such a time, to Lionel's loss and his. 
And that resolved self-exile from a land 
He never would revisit, such a feast 
So rich, so strange, and stranger ev'n thau 

rich. 
But rich as for the nuptials of a king. 

And stranger yet, at one end of the hall 
Two great funereal curtains, looping aown. 
Parted a little ere they met the floor. 
About a picture of his lady, taken 
Some years before, and falling hid the frame. 
And just above the parting was a lamp : 
So the sweet figure folded round with night 
Seem'd stepping out of darkness with a smile. 

Well then — our solemn feast — we ate 

and drank, 
And might — the wines being of such 

nobleness — 
Have jested also, but for Julian's eyes. 
And something weird and wild about it all : 
What was it ? for our lover seldom spoke. 
Scarce touch'd the meats ; but ever and aiioa 
A priceless goblet with a priceless wine 
Arising, sliow'd he drank beyond his use ; 
And when the feast was near an end, he said : 

" There is a custom in the Orient, 
friends — 
I read of it in Persia — when a man 
Will honor those who feast with him, he 

brings 
And shows them whatsoever he accounts 
Of all his treasures the most beautiful, 
Gold, jewels, arms, whatever it may be. 
This custom — " 

Pausing here a moment, all 
The guests broke in upon him with meeting 

hands 
And cries about the banquet — " Beautiful I 
Who could desire more beauty at a feast } " 

The lover answer' d, "There is more than 

one 
Here sitting who desires it. Laud me not 
Before my time, but hear me to the close. 
This custom steps yet further when the guest 
Is loved and honor'd to the uttermost. 
For after he has shown him gems or gold. 
He brings and sets before him in rich guise 
That which is thrice as beautiful as these, 
The beauty that is dearest to his heart — 
' O my heart's lord, would 1 could show 

you,' he says. 
' Ev'n my lieart too.' And \ propose to-night 
To show you what is dearest to my heart, 
And my heart too. 

" But solve me first a doubt 



THE GOLDEN SUPPER. 



27: 



I knew a man, nor many years ago ; 
He had a faithful servant, one who loved 
His master more than all on earth beside. 
He falling sick, and seeming close on death. 
His master would not wait until he died. 
But bade his menials bear him from the door. 
And leave him in the public way to die. 
1 knew another, not so long ago. 
Who found the dying servant, took him 

home, 
And fed, and cherish'd him, and saved his 

life. 
I ask you now, should this first master claim 
His service, whom does it belong to? him 
Who thrust him out, or him who saved iiis 

life?" 

This question, so flung down before the 
guests, 
And balanced either way by each, at length 
When some were doubtful \\on the lawwou.d 

hold. 
Was handed over by consent of all 
To one wlio had not spoken, Lionel. 

Fairspeech was his, and delicate of phrase. 
And he beginning languidly — his loss 
Weigh'd on him yet — but warming as he 

went. 
Glanced at the point of law, to pass it by, 
Aifirming that as long as either lived. 
By all the laws of love and gratefiilness. 
The service of the one so saved was due 
All to the saver — adding, with a smile. 
The first for many weeks — a semi-smile 
As at a strong conclusion — " body and soul 
And life and limbs, all his to work his will." 

Then Julian made a secret sign to m» 
To bring Camilla down before them al' 
And crossin'5 her own picture as she came. 
And InrVinj, as much lovelier as herself 
Is lovelier than all others — on her head 
A diamond circ'et, and from under this 
A veil, that seem'd no more than gilded air. 
Flying by each fine ear, an Eastern gauze 
With seeds of gold — so, with that grace of 

hers. 
Slow-moving as a wave against the wind. 
That flings a mist behind it in the sun — 
And bearing high in arms the mighty babe, 
I'he younger J ulian, who himself was crown'd 
With roses, none so rosy as himself — 
And over all her babe and her the jewels 
Of many generations of his house 
Sparkled and llash'd, for he had decked them 

out 
As for a solemn sacrifice of love — 
So she came in : — 1 am long in telling it, 
I never yet beheld a thing so strange. 
Sad, sweet, and strange together — floated 

in, — 
While all the guests in mute amazement 

rose, — 
•Viid slowly pacing to the middle hall. 
Before the board, there paused and stood, her 

breast 
; Hard-beaving, ar'» h.;r eyes upon her feet. 



Not daring yet to glance at Lionel. 

But him she carried, him nor lights nor feast 

Uazed or amazed, nor eyes of men ; who 

cured 
Only to use his own, and staring wide 
And hungering for the gilt and jeweli'd world 
About him, look'd, as he is like to prove. 
When Julian goes, the lord of all he saw. 

" My guests," said Julian : " you are hon- 
or'd now 
Ev'n to the uttermost : in her behold 
Of all my treasures the most beautiful, 
I Of all things upon earth the dearest to me." 
I Then waving us a sign to seat ourselves, 
I Led his dear lady to a chair of state. 

And 1, by Lionel sitting, saw his face 
I Fire, and dead ashes and all fire again 
j Thrice in a second, felt him tremble too, 
i And heard him muttering, " So like, so like : 
She never had a sister. I knew none. 
Some cousin of his and hers — O God, so 

like ! " 
And then he suddenly ask'd her if she were. 
She shook, and cast her eyes down, and was 

dumb. 
And then some other question 'd if she came 
From foreign lands, and still she did not 

speak. 
Another, if the boy were hers : but she 
To all their queries answer'd not a word. 
Which made the amazement more, till one 

of them 
Said, shuddering, " Her spectre 1 " But his 

friend 
Replied, in half a whisper, " Not at least 
The spectre that will speak if spoken to. 
'J'arrible pity, if one so beautiful 
Jt " vi, as I al most dread to find her, dumb ! " 

But Julian, sitting by her, answer'd all : 
"She is but dumb, because in her you see 
Tiiat faithful servant whom we spoke about. 
Obedient to her second master now ; 
Which will not last. I have here to night a 

guest 
So bound to me by common love and loss — • 
What ! shall I bind him more ? in his behalf, 
Shall I exceed the Persian, giving him 
That which of all things is the dearest to me, 
Not only showing? and he himself pro- 
nounced 
That my rich gift is wholly mine to give. 

" Now all be dumb, and promise all of you 
Not to break in on what I say by word 
Or whisper, while I show you all my heart." 
And then began the story of his love 
As here to-day, but not so wordily — 
The passionate moment would not suftei 

that — 
Past thf*^' his visions to the burial : thence 
Down to this last strange hour in his own 

hall ; 
And then rose up, and with him all his guests 
Once more as by enchantment ; all but he, 
Lionci, who fain had risen, but fell again. 
And sat as 'f in chains — to whom he said : 



3/8 



THE GOLDEN SUPPER. 



" Take my free gift, my cousin, for your 

wife ; 
And were it only for the giver's sake, 
And the' she seems so like the one you lost, 
Yet cast her not away so suddenly. 
Lest there be none left here to bring her 

back : 
I leave this land forever." Here he ceased. 

Then taking his dear lady by one hand, 
And bearing on one arm the noble babe. 
He slowly brought them both to Lionel. 
And there the widower husband and dead 

wife 
Rush'd each at each with a cry, that rather 

seem'd 
tor some new death than for a life renew'd ; 
hx this the very babe began to wail ; 



At once they turn'd, and caught and brought 

him in 
To their charm'd circle, and, half killing him 
With kisses, round him closed and claspt 

again. 
But Lionel, when at last he freed himself 
From wife and child, and lifted up a face 
All over glowing with the sun of life, 
And love, and boundless thanks — the sight 

of this 
So frighted our good friend, that turning to 

me 
And saying, " It is over : let us go " — 
There were our horses ready at the doors — 
We bade them no farewell, but mounting 

these 
He past forever from his native land : 
And I with him, my Julian, back to nme. 



ADDITIONAL POEMS. 



Note. — The Poems which follow include all those which have been omitted by the author from his 
latest revised editions, or never acknowledjfed by him. They are here printed, because, although un- 
sanctioned by Mr. Tennyson, they have recently been collected from various sources, and pruited in 
America. 



TIMBUCTOO.* 

" Deep in th.it lion-haunted inland lies 
A mystic city, goal of high cmijrise." 

CHAP.MAN. 

I STOOD upon the Mountain which o'er- 

looks 
The narrow seas, whose rapid interval 
Parts AlVic from green Europe, when the 

Sun 
Had fall'n below th' Atlantic, and above 
The silent heavens were blench'd with faery 

light, 
Uncertain whether faery light or cloud, 
Flowing Southward, and the chasms of deep, 

deep blue 
Slumber'd uufatliomable, and the stars 
Were flooded over with clear glory and pale. 
I gazed upon the sheeny coast beyond. 
There where the Giant of old Time infix'd 
The limits of liis prowess, pillars high 
Long time erased from earth : even as the 

Sea 
When weary of wild inroad buildeth up 
Huge mounds whereby to stay his yeasty 

waves. 
And much I mused on legends quaint and 

old 
Which whilome won the hearts of all on 

earth 
Toward their brightness, ev'n as flame draws 

air ; 
But had their being in the heart of man 
As air is th' life of flame : and thou wert then 
A centred glory-circled memory, 
Divinest Atalantis, whom the waves 
Have buried deep, and thou of later name, 
Imperial Eldorado, roof'd with gold: 
Shadows to which, despite all shocksof change, 
All on-set of capricious accident. 
Men clung with yearning hope which would 

not die. 
As when in some great city where the walls 
Shake, and the streets with ghastly faces 

thronged, 
Do utter forth a subterranean voice, 

* A Poem which obtained the Chancellor's Medal 
at the Caml)ridge Commencement, MDCCCXXIX. 
By A. TENNYSON, of Trinity College. 



Among the inner columns far retired 
At midnight, in the lone Acropolis, 
Before the awful genius of the place 
Kneels the pale Priestess in deep faith, the 

while 
Above her head the weak lamp dips and 

winks 
Unto the fearful summoning without : 
Nathless she ever clasps the marble knees, 
Bathes the cold hand with tears, and gazeth 

on 
Those eyes which wear no light but that 

wherewith 
Her fantasy informs them. 

Where are ye, 
Thrones of the Western wave, fair Islands 

green ? 
Where are your moonlight halls, your cedam 

glooms, 
The blossoming abysses of your hills? 
Your flowering capes, and your gold-sanded 

bays 
Blown round with happy airs of odorous 

winds? 
Where arc the infinite ways, which, seraph- 

irod. 
Wound thnnigh your great Elysian solitudes, 
Whose lowest deeps were, as with visible 

love. 
Filled witli Divine efl^ulgence, circnmfused. 
Flowing between the clear and polished 

stems, 
And ever circling round their emerald cones 
In coronals and glories, such as gird 
The unfading foreheads of the Saints in 

Heaven ? 
For nothing visible, they say, had birth 
In that blest ground, but it was played about 
With its peculiar glory. Then I raised 
My voice and cried, " Wide Afric, doth thy 

Sun 
Lighten, thy hills enfold a city as fair 
.^s those which starred the night o' the eldei 

world ? 
Or is the rumor of thy Timbuctoo 
A dream as frail as those of ancient time? " 

A curve of whitening, flashing, ebbing lightl 
A rustling of white wings ! the bright de- 
scent 
Of a young Seraph 1 and he stood beside me 



+- 



882 



TIMBUCTOO. 



There on the ridge, and looked into my face 
With his unutterable, shining orbs. 
So that with hasty motion I did veil 
My vision with both hands, and sawbefore me 
Such colored spots as dance athwart the eyes 
Of those that gaze upon the noonday Sun. 
Girt with a zone of flashing gold beneath 
His breast, and compassed round about his 

brow 
With triple arch of everchanging bows, 
And circled with the glory of living light 
And alternation of all hues, he stood. 

" O child of man, why muse you here alone 
Upon the Mountain, on the dreams of old 
• Which filled the earth with passing loveliness, 
Which flung strange music on the howling 

winds. 
And odors rapt from remote Paradise ? 
Thy sense is clogged with dull mortality : 
Open thine eyes and see." 

I looked, but not 
Upon his face, for it was wonderful 
With its exceeding brightness, and the light 
Of the great Angel Mind which looked from 

out 
The starry glowing of his restless eyes._ 
I felt my soul grow mighty, and my spirit 
Witli supernatural excitation bound 
Within me, and my mental eye grew large 
With such a vast circumference of thought. 
That in my vanity I seemed to stand 
Upon the outward verge and bound alone 
Of full beatitude. Each failing sense, 
As with a momentary flash of light, 
Grew tlirillingly distinct and keen. I saw 
The smallest grain that dappled the dark 

earth, 
The indistinctest atom in deep air. 
The Moon's white cities, and the opal width 
Of her small glowing lakes, her silver heights 
Unvisited with dew of vagrant cloud. 
And the unsounded, undescended depth 
Of her black hollows. The clear galaxy 
Shorn of its hoary lustre, wonderful. 
Distinct and vivid with sharp points of light, 
Blaze within blaze, an uniniagined depth 
And harmony of planet-girded suns 
And moon-encircled pl.tnets, wheel in wheel. 
Arched the wan sapphire. Nay — the hum 

of men. 
Or other things talking in unknown tongues. 
And notes of busy life in distant worlds 
Beat like a far wave on my anxious ear, 
A maze of piercing, trackless, thrilling 

thoughts. 
Involving and embracing each with each, 
Rapid as fire, inextricably linked. 
Expanding momently with every sight 
And sound which struck the palpitating sense. 
The issue of strong impulse, hurried through 
The riven rapt brain ; as when in some large 

lake 
From pressure of descendent crags, which 

lapse 
Disjointed, crumbling from their parent slope 
At slender interval, the level calm 
Is ridged with restless and increasing spheres 
Which break upon each other, each th' effect 



T 



Of separate impulse, but more fleet and 

strong 
Than its precursor, till the eye in vain 
Amid the wild unrest of swimming shade 
Dappled with hollow and alternate rise 
Of interpenetrated arc, would scan 
Definite round. 

I know not if I shape 
These things with accurate similitude 
From visible objects, for but dimly now. 
Less vivid than a half-forgotten dream. 
The memory of that mental excellence 
Comes o'er me, and it may be 1 entwine 
The indecision of my present mind 
With its past clearness, yet it seems to me 
As even then the torrent of quick thought 
Absorbed me from the nature of itself 
With its own fleetness. Where is he, that 

borne 
Adown the sloping of an arrowy stream. 
Could link his shallop to the fleeting edge, 
And muse midway with philosophic calm 
Upon the wondrous laws which regulate 
The fierceness of the bounding element? 
My thoughts which long had grovelled in fi 

the .slime 
Of this dull world, like dusky worms which 

house 
Beneath unshaken waters, but at once | 

Upon some earth-awakening day of Spring i 
Do pass from gloom to glory, and aloft ^ 

Winnow the purple, bearing on both sides 
Double display of starlit wings, which bum 
Fan-like and fibred with intensest bloom ; , 
Even so niv thoughts erewhile so low, now j 

felt ■ j 

Unutterable buoyancy and strength 
To bear them upward through the trackless 

fields 
Of undefined existence far and free. , 

Then first within the South methought I 

saw 
A wilderness of spires, and crystal pile 
Of rampart upon rampart, dome on dome, 
Illimitable range of battlement 
On battlement, and the Imperial height 
Of canopy o'ercanopied. 

Behind 
In diamond light up spring the dazzling peaks 
Of Pyramids, as far surpassing earth's 
As heaven than earth is fairer. Each aloft 
Upon his narrowed eminence bore globes 
Of wheeling suns, or stars, or semblances 
Of either, showering circular abyss 
Of radiance. But the glory of the place 
Stood out a pillared front of burnished gold, 
Interminably high, if gold it were 
Or metal more ethereal, and beneath 
Two doors of blinding brilliance, where no 

gaze 
Might rest, stood open, and the eye could 

scan. 
Through length of porch and valve and 

boundless hall. 
Part of a throne of fiery flame, v.herefrom 
The snowy skirting of a garment hung. 
And glimpse of multitude of multitudes 
That ministered around it — if I saw 



H- 



ELEGIACS. 



2»3 



S Th'ise things distinctly, for my Iniman brain 
1 Staggered beneath the vision, and thicl< night 
» Came down upon my eyelids, and I fell. 
With ministering hand he raised me up : 

• Tlien with a mournful and ineffable smile, 
, Which but to look on for a moment filled 

: My eyes with irresistible sweet tears, 
In accents of majestic melody. 
Like a swoln river's gushings in still night 

i Mingled with floating music, thus he spake : 
" 'J'here is no mighlier Spirit than I to sway 

• The heart of man ; and teach him to attain 
' By shadowing forth the Unattainable ; 

• And step by step to scale that mighty stair 

r Whose landing-place is wrapt about with 
; . clouds 

; Of glory of heaven.* With earliest light of 
Spring, 
And in the glow of sallow Summertide, 
And in red Autumn when the winds are wild 
With gambols, and when full-voiced Winter 

roofs 
The headland with inviolate white snow, 
I play about his heart a thousand ways. 
Visit his eyes with visions, and his ears 
With harmonies of wind and wave and wood, 
— Of winds which tell of waters, and of waters 
Betraying the close kisses of the wind — 
And win him unto me : and few there be 
So gross of heart who have not felt and known 
A higher than they see : they with dim eyes 
Behold me darkling. Lo ! I have given thee 
To understand my presence, and to feel 
My fulness : I have filled thy lips with power. 
I have raised thee nigher to the spheres of 

heaven, 
Man's first, last home : and thou with rav- 
ished sense 

• " Be ye perfect, even as your Father in heaven 
is perfect!" 



I.istenest the lordly music flowing from 
The illimitable years- I am the Spirit, 
The permeating life which courselh through 
All th' intricate and labyrinthine veins 
Of the .great vine of P'able, which, outspread 
With growth of shadowing leaf and clusters 

rare, 
Reacheth to every corner under heaven. 
Deep-rooted in the living soil of truth ; 
Sothat men's hopes and fears take refuge ia 
The fragrance of its complicated glooms. 
And cooi impeached twilights. Child of man 
Seest thou yon river, whose translucent wave. 
Forth issuing from the darkness, windeth 

through 
The argent streets o' the city, imaging 
The soft inversion of her tremulous domes. 
Her gardens frequent with the stately palm 
Herpagods hung with music of sweet bells. 
Her obelisks of ranged chrysolite. 
Minarets and towers ? Lo ! how he passeth 

by. . . 

And gulfs himself in sands, as not enduring 
To carry through the world those waves, which 

bore 
The reflex of my city in their depth. 
O city ! O latest throne ! where I was raised 
To be a mystery of loveliness 
Unto all eyes, the time is wellnigh come 
When I must render up this glorious home 
lo keen Discovery; soon yon brilliant towers 
Shall darken with the waving of her wand ; 
Darken and shrink and shiver into huts. 
Black specks amid a waste of dreary sand, 
Low-buiit, mud-walled, barbarian settleineuts. 
How changed from this fair city ! " 

Thus far the Spirit : 
Then parted heavenward on the wing : and I 
Was left alone on Calpe, and the moon 
Had fallen from the night, and all was dark ! 



POEMS PUBLISHED IN THE EDITION OF 1830, 
AND OMITTED IN LATER EDITIONS. 



ELEGIACS. 

Low-flowing breezes are roaming ths broad 
valley dimmed in the gloaming : 

Thro' the black-stemmed pines only the far 
river shines. 

Creeping through blossomy rushes and bow- 
ers of rose-blowing bushes. 

Sown by the poplartall rivuletsbabble andfall. 

Barketh the shepherd-dog cheerly ; the grass- 
hopper caroUeth clearly ; 

Deeply the turtle cooes ; shrilly the owlet 
halloos ; 

Winds creep: dews fall chiily: in her first 
sleep earth breathes stilly : 

Over the pools in the bum watergnats mur- 
mur and mourn. 



Sadly the far kine loweth : the glimmering 

water outfiowelh : 
Twin peaks shadowed with pine slope to the 

dark hyaline. 
Low-throned Hesper is stayed between the 

two peaks ; but the Naiad 
Throbbing in wild unrest holds him beneath 

in her breast. 
The ancient poetess singeth that Hesperus 

all things bringeth. 
Smoothing the wearied mind : bring me my 

love, Rosalind. 
Thou comest morning and even ; she Cometh 

not morning or even. 
False-eyed Hesper, unkind, where is my 

sweet Rosalind ? 



284 'fHE "HOW" AND THE 'WHY." — SUPPOSED CONFESSIONS. 



THE "HOW" AND THE "WHY." 



I AM any man's suitor, 
If any will be my tutor: 
Some say this life is pleasant, 
Some think it speedeth fast. 
In time there is no present. 
In' eternity no future. 
In eternity no past. 
We laugh, we cry, we are born, we die. 
Who will riddle me the how and the ivhy ? 

The bulrush nods unto its brother. 
The wlieatears whisper to each other : 
What is it they say ? what do they there ? 
Why two and two make four? why round is 

not square ? 
Why the rock stands still, and the light 

clouds fly ? 
Why the heavy oak groans, and the white 

willows sigh ? 
Why deep is not high, and high is not deep? 
Whether we wake or whether we sleep? 
Whether we sleep, or whether we d.e? 
How you are you? why 1 am I ? 
Who will riddle me the hoiu and the why ? 

The world is somewhat ; it goes on somehow : 

But what is the meaning of thi'n and noiv? 

1 feel there is something ; but how and 

what ? 
I know there is somewhat : but what and 

why ? 
I cannot tell if that somewhat be I. 

The little bird jiipelh — " why ? why ? " 
In the summer woods when the sun falls low, 
And the great bird sits on the opposite bough. 
And stares in his face and shouts "how? 

how ? " 
And the black owl scuds down the mellow 

twilight. 
And chants " how ? how ? " the whole of the 

night 

Why the life goes out when the blood is spilt ? 

What the life is? where the soul may lie ? 
Why a church is with a steeple built : 
And a house with a chimney-pot ? 
Who will riddle me the how and tlie what? 

Who will riddle me the what and tlie why ? 



SUPPOSED CONFESSIONS 

OF A SECOND-HATE .SENSITIVE MIND NOT 
IN UNITY WITH ITSELF. 

God ! my God ! have mercy now. 

1 faint, 1 fall. Men say that thou 
Didst die for me, for such as me. 
Patient of ill, and rienth, and scorn. 
And that my sin was as a thorn 
Among the thorns that girt thy brow. 
Wounding thy soul. — That even now. 
In this extremest misery 

Of ignorance, 1 should require 



A sign ! and if a bolt of fire 
Would rive the slumberous summer noon 
While 1 do pray to thee alone. 
Think my belief would stronger grow ! 
Is not my human pride brought low? 
'I'he boastings of my spirit still ? 
The joy I had in my free will 
All cold, and dead, and corpse-like giownl 
And what is left to me, but thou. 
And faith in thee? Men pass nie by 
Christians with happy countenances — 
And children all seem full of thee ! 
And women smile with saintlike glances 
Like thine own mother's when she bowed 
Above thee, on that happy morn 
When angels spake to men aloud, 
/ n 1 tliou and peace to earth were born. 
Goodwill to me as well as all — 
— I one of them : my brothers they : 
Brothers in Christ — a world of \ eace 
I And confidence, day after day ; 
And trust and hope till things should cease. 
And then one Heaven receive us all. 

How sweet to have a common faith ! 
To hold a common scorn of death ! 
And at a burial to hear 

The creaking cords which wound and eat 
Into my liuman heart, whene'er 
Earth goes to earth, with grief, not fear. 

With hopeful grief, were passing sweet ! 
A grief not uninformed, and dull. 
Hearted with hope, of hoj e as lull 
As is the blood with life, or night 
And a dark cloud with rich moonlight. 
To stand beside a grave, and see 
The red small atoms wherewith we 
Are built, and smile in calm, and say — 
"These little motes and grains shah be 
Clothed on with immortality 
More glorious than the noon of day. 

All that is pass'd into the flowers. 
And into beasts and other men. 
And all the Norland whirlwind sliowers 
Kioin o) en vaults, and all the se.a 
O'erwashes with sharp salts, again 
Shall fleet together all, and be 
Indued with immuna'ity." 

Thrice happy stale again to be 

The trustful infant on the knee I 

Who lets his waxen fingers play 

About his mother's neck, and knows 

Nothing beyond his mother's eyes. 

They coml'ort him by night and day. 

They light his little life alway ; 

He hath no thought of coming woes; 

He hath no care of life or death, 

Scarce outward signs of joy arise, 

liecause the Spirit oi happiness 

And perfect rest so inward is; 

And loveth so his innocent heart, r 

Her temple and her jilace of birth, | 

Where she woiilrl ever wis)) to dwell, 

Life ol the louiitain iheie, beneath 

Its. salient springs, and far apari. 

Hating to wander out on earth. 

Or breathe into the hollow air. 



SUPPOSED CJNFESSIONS. 



28s 



Whose chillness would mnke visible 

Her subtile, warm, and golden breath, 

Which n)ixing with the infant's blood, 

Full fills him with beatitude. 

Oh ! sure it is a special care 

Of God, to fortify trom duubt. 

To arm in proof, and guard about 

With triple mailed trust, and clear 

Del ght, the infant's dawning year. 

Would that my gloomed fancy were 

As thine, my mother, when with brows 

Propped on thy knees, my hands upheld 

In thine, I listened to thy vows. 

For me outpoured in holiest prayer — 

For me unworthy ! — and beheld 

The mild deep eyes upraised, that knew 

The beauty and repose of faith. 

And the clear spirit shining through. 

Oh ! wherefore do we grow awry 

From roots which strike so deep.' why dare 

Paths in the desert .' Could not I 

Bow myself down, where thou hast knelt, 

To th' earth — until the ice would melt 

Here, and I feel as thou hast felt ? 

What Devil had the heart to scathe 

Flowers thou hadst reared — to brush the dew 

From thine own lily, when thy grave 

Was deep, my mother, in the clay? 

Myself? Is it thus? Myself? Had>I 

So little love for thee ? l?ut why 

Prevailed not thy pure prayers? Why pray 

To one who heeds not, who can save 

But will not? Great in faith, and strong 

Against the grief of circumstance 

Wert thou, and yet unheard ? What if 

Thou pleadest still, and seest me drive 

Through utter dark a full-sailed skiff, 

Unpiloted i' the echoing dance 

Of reboant whirlwinds, stooping low 

Unto the death, not sunk ! I know 

At matins and at evensong. 

That thou, if thou wert yet alive. 

In deep and daily prayers wouldst strive 

To reconcile me with thy God. 

Albeit, my hope is gray, and cold 

At heart, thou wouldest murmur still 

" Bring this lamb back into thy fold, 

My Lord, if so it be thy will." 

Wouldst tell me I must brook the rod, 

And chastisement of human pride ; 

That pride, the sin of devils, stood 

Ketwixt me and the light of God ! 

That hitherto I had defied. 

And had rejected God — that Grace 

Would drop from his o'erbrimming love. 

As manna on my wilderness. 

If I would pray — that God would move 

And strike the hard, hard rock, and thence, 

Sweet in their utmost bitterness. 

Would issue tears of penitence 

Which would keep green hope's life. Alas I 

I think that pride 'lath now no place 

Or sojourn in nie. I am void, 

Dark, formless, utterly destroyed. 

Why not believe then ? Wliy not •. ^t 
Anchor thy frailty there, where man 
Hath moored and rested ? Ask the sea 



At midnight, when the crisp slope waves 

After a tempest, rib and fret 

The broad-imbased beach, why he 

Slumbers not like a mountain tarn? 

Wherefore his ridges are not curls 

And ripples of an inland nieer? 

Wherefore he moanetli thus, nor can 

Draw down into his vexed luiols 

All tliat blue heaven which hues and paves 

The other? I am too forlorn, 

Too shaken : my own weakness fools 

My judgment, and my s| irit whirls. 

Moved from beneath with doubt and fear. 

" Yet," said I, in my morn of youth. 

The unsunned freshness of my strength, 

When I went forth in quest of truth, 

" It is man's privilege to doubt. 

If so be that from doubt at length. 

Truth may stand forth unmoved of change, 

An image with profulgent brows. 

And perfect limbs, as from the storm 

Of running fires and fluid range 

Of lawless airs at last stood out 

This excellence and solid form 

Of constant beauty. For the Ox 

Feeds in the herb, and sleeps, or fills 

The horned valleys all about, 

And hollows of the fringed hills 

In summerheats, with placid lows 

Unfearing, till his own blood flows 

About his hoof And in the flocks 

The lamb rejoiceth in the year, 

And raceth freely with his fere, 

And answers to his mother's calls 

From the flowered furrow. In a time. 

Of which he wots not, run short pains 

Through his warm heart : and then, from 

whence 
He knows not, on his light there falls 
A shadow; and his native slope 
Where he was wont to leap and climb, 
Floats from his sick and filmed eyes. 
And something in the darkness draws 
His forehead earthward, and he dies. 
Shall men live thus, in joy and hone 
As a young lamb, who cannot dream. 
Living, but that he shall live on ? 
Shall we not look into the laws 
Of life and death, and things that seem, 
And things that be, and analyze 
Our double nature, and compare 
All creeds till we have found the one, 
If one there be ? " Ay me ! I fear 
All may not doubt, but everywhere 
Some must clasp Idols. Yet, my God, 
Whom call I Idol ? Let thy dove 
Shadow me over, and my sins 
Be unreinembered, and thy love 
Enlighten me. O teach me yet 
Somewhat before the heavy clod 
Weighs on me, and the busy fret 
Of that sharp-headed worm begins 
In the gross blackness underneath. 

O weary life ! O weary death 1 
O spirit and heart made desolate 1 
O damned vacillating state ! 



286 



THE BURIAL OF LOVE. — TO 



-.—SONGS. 



THE BURIAL OF LOVE. 

His eyes in eclipse, 
Pale-cold his lips, 
The light of his hopes unfed, 
Mute his tongue. 
His bow unstrung 
With the tears he hath shed, 
Backward drooping his graceful head, 
Love is dead : 
His last arrow is sped ; 
He hath not another dart : 
Go — carry him to his dark deathbed ; 
Bury him in the cold, cold heart — 
Love is dead. 

O truest love ! art thou forlorn. 

And unrevenged ? thy pleasant wiles 

Forgotten, and thine innocent joy? 

Shall hollow-hearted apathy. 
The cruellest form of perfect scorn, 

iWith languor of most hateful smiles. 
For ever write, 
Li the withered light 
Of the tearless eye, 
An epitaph that all may spy? 
No ! sooner she herself shall die. 

For her the showers shall not fall. 

Nor the round sun shine that shineth to all; 

Her light shall into darkness change ; 
For her the green grass shall not spring, _ 
Nor the rivers flow, nor the sweet birds sing. 

Till Love have his full revenge. 



TO . 

Sainted Juliet ! dearest name I 
If to love be life alone, 
Divinest Juhet, 
I love thee, and live ; and yet 
Love unreturned is like the fragrant flame 
Folding the slaughter of the sacrifice 

Offered to gods upon an altar-throne ; 
My heart is lighted at thine eyes. 
Changed into fire, and blown about with sighs. 



SONG. 



I' THE glooming light 

Of middle night 

So cold and white, 
Worn Sorrow sits by the moaning wave. 

Beside her are laid 

Her mattock and spade, 
For she hath half delved her own deep grave 

Alone she is there : 
The white clouds drizzle : her hair falls loose : 

Her shoulders are bare : 
Her tears are mixed with the beaded dews. 



Death standeth by ; 

She will not die ; 

With glazed eye 
She looks at her grave : she cannot sleep ; 

Ever alone 

She maketh her moan : 
She cannot speak : she can only weep, 

For she will not hope. 
The thick snow falls on her flake by flake. 

The dull wave mourns down the 
slope. 
The world will not change, and her heart will 
not break. 



SONG. 



The lintwhite and the throstlecock 
Have voices svveet and clear ; 
All iu the bloomed May. 
They from the blosmy brere 
Call to the fleeting year. 
If that he would them hear 

And stay. 
Alas ! that one so beautiful 
Should have so dull an ear ! 



Fair year, fair year, thy children call, 
But thou art deaf as death ; 

All in the bloomed May. 
When thy light perishclh 
That from thee issueth. 
Our life evanisheth: 

O, stay ! 
Alas ! that lips so cruel-dmnb 
Should have so sweet a breath ! 



Fair year, with brows of royal love 
Thou comest, as a king. 

All in the bloomed May. 
Thy golden largess fling. 
And longer hear us sing ; 
Though thou art fleet of wing, 

Yet stay. 
Alas ! that eyes so full of light 
Should be so wandering I 



Thy locks are all of sunny sheen 
In rings of gold yronne,* 

All in the bloomed May. 
We pri'thee pass not on ; 
If thou dost leave the sun, 
Delight is with thee gone 

O, stay ! 
Thou art the fairest of thy feres. 
We pri'thee pass not ou. 



*' His crispc luii 



CHAUCF.K, A'< 



SONG. — NOTHING WILL DIE. — ALL THINGS WILL DIE. 287 



SONG. 



Every day hath its night : 

Every night its morn : 
Thorough dark and bright 
Winged hours are borne ; 
Ah ! welaway ! 
Seasons flower and fade ; 
Golden calm and storm 

Mingle day by day. 
There is no briglit form 
Doth not cast a shade — 
Ah ! welaway 1 



When we laugh, and our mirth 

Apes the happy vein, 
We 're so kin to earth, 
Pleasaunce fathers pain — 
Ah ! welaway ! 
Madness laugheth loud : 
Laughter bringeth tears : 
Eyes are worn away 
Till the end of fears 
Cometh in the shroud. 
Ah ! welaway 1 



All is change, woe or weal ; 
Joy is Sorrow's brother ; 
Grief and gladness steal 
Symbols of each other: 
Ah ! welaway ! 
Larks in heaven's cope 
Sing : the culvers mourn 
All the livelong day. 
Be not all forlorn : 
Let us weep in hope — 
Ah ! welaway ! 



NOTHING WILL DIE. 

When will the stream be aweary of flowing 

Under my eye ? 
When will the wind be aweary of blowing 

Over the sky ? 
When will the clouds be aweary of fleeting ? 
When will ti;'^ heart be aweary of beating? 

And naL'ire die ? 
Never, O never ! .nothing will die ; 

iThe stream hows, 
The wind blows, 
The cloud fleets. 
The heart beats, 
Nothing will die. 

Nothing will die ; 

All things will change 
Through eternity. 

' T is the world's winter ; 
Autumn and summer 
Are gone long ago. 
Earth is dry to the centre, 
j But spring a new comer — 



A spring rieh and strange, 

Shall make the winds blow 
Round and round, 

Through and through, 
Here and there, 
I'ill the air 
And the ground 
Shall be hlled with life anew. 
The world was never made ; 
It will change, but it will not fade. 
So let the wind range ; 
For even and morn 
Ever will be 
Through eternity. 
Nothing was born ; 
Nothing will die ; 
All things will change. 



ALL THINGS WILL DIE. 

Clearly the blue river chimes in its flowing 

Under my eye ; 
Warmly and broadly the south winds a»e 
blowing 
Over the sky. 
One after another the white clouds are fleet- 
ing ; 
Every heart this May morning in joyance is 
beating 
Full merrily ; 
Yet all things must die. 
The stream will cease to flow ; 
The wind will cease to blow ; 
The clouds will cease to fleet; 
The heart will cease to beat ; 
For all things must die. 

All things must die. 
Spring will come nevermore. 

O, vanity ! 
Death waits at the door. 
See ! our friends are all forsaking 
The wine and merrymaking. 
We are called — we must go. 
Laid low, very low, 
In the dark we must lie. 
The merry glees are still ; 
The voice of the bird 
Shall no more be heard. 
Nor the wind on the hill. 
O, misery ! 
Hark ! death is calling 
While I speak to ye, 
The jaw is falling, 
The red cheek paling. 
The strong limbs failing ; 
Ice with thewarm blood mixing; 
The eyeballs fixing. 
Nine times goes the passing bell 
Ye merry souls, farewell. 

The old earth 
Had a birth. 
As all men know 
Long ago. 
And the old earth must die. 



288 HERO 10 LEANDER. — THE MYSTIC — THE GRASSHOPPER. 



So let the warm winds range, 
And the bhie wave beat the shore ; 
For even and morn 
Ye will never see 
Through eternity. 
All things were born. 
Ye will come nevermore, 
For all things must die. 



HERO TO l.EANDER. 

O GO not yet, my 'nve ! 

'I'he night is 'tar'', and vast ; 
The white moon is hid in her heaven above, 

And the waves climb liigh and fast. 
O, kiss me, kiss me, once again. 

Lest thy kiss should be the last ! 
O kiss me ere we part ; 
Grow closer to my heart ! 
My heart is warmer surely than the bosom 
of the main. 
O joy ! O bliss of blisses ! 

My heart of hearts art thou. 
Come bathe me with thy kisses, 

My eyelids and my brow. 
Hark how the wild rain hisses. 

And the loud sea roars below. 

Thy heart beats through thy rosy limbs, 

So gladly doth it stir ; 
Thine eye in drops of gladness swims. 

I have bathed thee with the pleasant 
myrrh ; 
Thy locks are dripping balm ; 
Thou shalt not wander hence to-night, 

1 '11 stay thee with my kisses. 
To-night the roaring brine 

Will rend thy golden tresses ; 
The ocean with the morrow light 
Will be both blue and calm ; 
And the billow will embrace thee with a kiss 
as soft as mine. 
No Western odors wander 

On the black and moaning sea, 
And when thou art dead, Leander 

My soul must follow thee ! 
O go not yet, my love ! 

Thy voice is sweet and low ; 
The deep salt wave breaks in above 

Those marble steps below. 
The turret-stairs are wet 

That lead into the sea. 
Leander ! go not yet. 
The pleasant stars have set: 
O, go not, go not yet. 

Or I will follow thee ! 



THE MYSTIC. 

Angels have talked with him, and showed 

him thrones : 
Ye knew him not; he was not one of ye. 
Ye scorned him with an undiscerning scorn : 
Ye could not read the marvel in his eye, 



The still serene abstraction : he hath felt 
The vanities of after and before ; 
Albeit, his spirit and his secret heart 
The stern experiences of converse lives, 
The linked woes of many a fiery change 
Had purified, and chastened, and made free. 
Always there stood before him, night and day. 
Of wayward vary-colored circumstance 
The imperishable presences serene. 
Colossal, without form, or sense, or sound, 
Dim shadows but unwaning presences 
Foiu faced to four corners of the .sky : 
And yet again, three shadows, fronting one. 
One forward, one respectaiit. three but one '.. 
And yet again, again and evermore. 
For the two first were not, but only seemed, 
One shadow in the midst of a great light. 
One reflex from eternity on time. 
One mighty countenance of perfect calm. 
Awful with most invariable eyes. 
For him the silent congregated hours. 
Daughters of time, divinely tall, beneath 
Severe and youthful brows, with shining eyes 
Smiling a godlike smile (die innocent light 
Of earliest youth pierced through and through 

with all 
Keen knowledges of low-embowed eld) 
Upheld, and ever hold aloft the cloud 
Which droops low-hinig on either gate of life, 
Both birth and death : he in the centre fixt. 
Saw far on each side through the grated gates 
Most pale and clear and lovely distances. 
He often lying broad awake, and yet 
Remaining from the body, and apart 
In intellect and power and will, hath heard 
'J'ime flowing in the middle of the night. 
And all things creeping to a day of doom. 
How could ye know him? Ve were yet within 
The narrower circle: he had wellnigh reached 
'I'he last, which with a region of white flame. 
Pure without heat, into a larger air 
Upburning, and an ether of black blue, 
Investeth and ingirds all other lives. 



THE GRASSHOPPER. 



Voice of the summer wind, 

Joy of the summer plain. 

Life of the summer hours, 

Carol clearly, bound along. 

No Tithon thou as poets feign 

(Shame fall 'em they are deaf and blind). 

But an insect lithe and strong. 

Bowing the seeded summer flowers. 

Prove their falsehood and thy quarrel. 

Vaulting on thine airy feet. 
Clap thy shielded sides and carol, 
Carol clearly, chirrup sweet. 
Thou art a mailed warrior in youth and 
strength complete ; 
Armed cap-a-pie 
Full fair to see ; 
Unknowing fear, 
Undreading loss, 



LOVE, PRIDE. AND FORGETFULNESS.— LOVE AND SORROW. 289 



A gallant cavalier, 
Siuts fieur et sans reproche. 
In sunlight and in shadow, 
The Bayaid of the meadow. 



I would dwell with thee, 

Merry grasshopper. 
Thou art so glad and free. 

And as light as air ; 
rhou liast no sorrow or tears, 
Thou hast no compt of years, 
No withered immortality, 
But a short youth sunny and free. 
Carol clearly, bound along. 

Soon thy joy is over, 
k summer of loud song, 

And slumbers in the clover. 
What hast thou to do with evil 
[n thine hour of love and revel, 

In thy heat of summer pride, 
Pushing the thick roots aside 
Of the singing floweriSd grasses. 
That brush tliee with their silken tresses? 
What hast thou to do with evil. 
Shooting, singing, ever springing 

In and out the emerald glooms. 
Ever leaping, ever singing, 

Lighting on the golden blooms? 



LOVE, PRIDE, AND FORGETFUL- 
NESS. 

Eke yet my heart was sweet Love's tomb. 

Love labored honey busily. 

I was the hive, and Love the bee. 

My heart the honeycomb. 

One very d.irk and chilly night 

Pride came beneath and held a light. 

The cruel vapors went through all, 
Sweet Love was withered in his cell : 
Pride took Love's sweets, and by a spell 
Did change them into gall ; 
And Memory, though fed by Pride, 
Did wa.x so thin on gall. 
Awhile she scarcely lived at all. 
What marvel that she died ? 



CHORUS 

IN AN UNPUBLISHED DRAMA, WRITTEN 
VERY EARLY. 

The varied earth, the moving heaven, 

The rapid waste of roving sea, 
The fountain-pregnant mountains riven 

To shapes of wildest anarchy. 
By secret fire and midnight storms 

That wander round their windy cones. 
The subtle life, the countless forms 

Of living things, the wondrous tones 
Of man and beast are full of strange 
Astonishment and boundless change. 



The day, the diamonded night. 

The echo, feeble child of sound. 
The heavy tliunder's griding might. 

The herald iigluniuii's starry bound, 
The vocal spring of bursting bloom. 

The naked summer's glowing birth, 
The troublous autumn's sallow gloom. 

The hoarhead winter paving earth 
With sheeny white, are full of strange 
Astonishment and boundless change. 

Each sun which from the centre flings 

Grand music and redundant fire. 
The burning belts, the mighty rings. 

The murm'rous planets' rollmg choir. 
The globe-filled arch that, cleaving air, 

Lost in its own effulgence sleeps. 
The lawless comets as they glare 

And thunder through the sapphire deeps 
In wayward strength, and full of strange 
Astonishment and boundless change. 



LOST HOPE. 

You cast to ground the hope which once was 

mine : 

But did the while yourharsh decree deplore, 

Embalming with sweet tears the vacant shrine, 

My heart, where Hope had been and was 

no more. 

So on an oaken sprout 
A goodly acorn grew ; 
But winds from heaven shook the acorn out, 
And filled the cup with dew. 



THE TEARS OF HEAVEN. 

Heaven weeps above the eartli all night till 

morn, 
In darkness weeps as all ashamed to weep, 
Because the earth hath made her state forlorn 
With self-wrouglit evil of unnumbered years, 
And doth the fruit of her dishonor reap. 
And all the day heaven gathers back her 

tears, 
Into her own blue eyes so clear and dee]\ 
And showering down the glory of lightsome 

day. 
Smiles on the earth's worn brow to win her 

if she may. 



LOVE AND SORROW. 

O MAIDRN, fresher than tlie first green leaf 
With which the fearful springtide flecks the 

lea. 
Weep not, Almeida, that I said to tliee 
That thou liast half my heart, for bitter grief 
Doth hold the other half in sovranty. 
Thou art my heart's sun in love's crystalline : 
Vet on both sides at once thou canst not 

shine : 



ago 



TO A LADV SLEEPING. — SONNETS. — LOVE. 



Thine is the bright side of my heart, and 

thine 
My heart's day, but the shadow of my heart, 
Issue of its own substance, my heart's night 
Thou canst not lighten even with thy light, 
All-powerful in beauty as thou art. 
Almeida, if my heart were substanceless, 
Then might thy rays pass through to the 

other side, 
So swiftly, that they nowhere would abide, 
But lose themselves in utter emptiness. 
Half-light, half-shadow, let my spirit sleep; 
They never learned to love who never knew 

to weep. 



TO A LADY SLEEPING. 

O THOU whose fringed lids I gaze upon. 
Through whose dim brain the winged dreams 

are borne, 
Unroof the shrines of clearest vision, 
In honor of the silver-flecked morn ; 
Long hath the white wave of the virgin light 
Driven back the billow of the dreamful dark. 
Thou all unwittingly prolongest night, 
Though long ago listening the poised lark. 
With eyes dropt downward through the blue 

serene. 
Over heaven's parapet the angels lean. 



SONNET. 

Could I outwear my present state of woe 
With one brief winter, and indue i' the spring 
Hues ef fresh youth, and mightily outgrow 
The wan dark coil of faded suffering — 
Forth in the pride of beauty issuing 
A sheeny snake, the light of vernal bowers. 
Moving his crest to all sweet plots of flowers 
And watered valleys where the young birds 

sing ; 
Could I thus hope my lost delight's renewmg, 
I straightly would command the tears to creep 
From my charged lids ; but inwardly I weep ; 
Some vital heat as yet my heart is wooing : 
That to itself hath drawn the frozen rain 
1 rom my cold eyes, and melted it again. 



SONNET. 

Though Night hath climbed her peak of 

highest noon. 
And bitter blasts the screaming autumn whirl. 
All night through archways of the bridged 

pearl, 
And portals of pure silver, walks the moon. 
Walk on, my soul, nor crouch to agony. 
Turn cloud to light, and bitterness to joy, 
And dross to gold with glorious alchemy. 
Basing thy throne above tlie world's annoy. 
Reign thou above the storms of sorrow and 

ruth 



That roar beneath ; unshaken peace hath 

won thee ; 
So shalt thou pierce the woven glooms of 

truth ; 
So sliall the blessing of the meek be on thee ; 
So in thine hour of dawn, the body's youth, 
An honorable eld shall come upon thee. 



SONNET. 

Shall the hag Evil die with child of Good, 
Or propagate again her loathed kind. 
Thronging the cells of the diseased mind. 
Hateful with hanging cheeks, a withered 

brood. 
Though hourly pastured on the salient blood? 
O that the wind which bloweth cold or heat 
Would shatter and o'erbear the brazen beat 
Of their broad vans, and in the solitude 
Of middle space confound them, and blow 

back 
Their wild cries down their cavern throats, 

and slake 
With points of blast-borne hail their heated 

ayne ! 
So their wan limbs no more might come 

between 
The moon and the moon's reflex in the night, 
Nor blot with floating shades the solar light. 



SONNET. 

The pallid thtmder-stricken sigh for gain, 
Down an ideal stream they ever float. 
And sailing on Pactolus in a boat. 
Drown soul and sense, while wistfully they 

strain 
Weak eyes upon the glistening sands that 

robe 
The understream. The wise, could he be- 
hold 
Cathedraled caverns of thick-ribbed gold 
And branching silvers of the central globe. 
Would marvel from so beautiful a sight 
How scorn and ruin, pain and hate could 

flow : 
But Hatred in a gold cave sits below ; 
Pleached with her hair, in mail of argent 

light 
Shot into gold, a snake her forehead clips. 
And skins the color from her trembling lips. 



LOVE. 



Thou, from the first, unborn, undying love, 
Albeit we gaze not on thy glories near. 
Before the face of God didst breathe and 

move. 
Though night and pain and ruin and death 

reign here. 



THE KRA KEN. — ENGLISH WA R-SONG. — NA T/ONA L SONG. 291 



Tliou foldest, like a golden atmosphere. 
The very throne of the eternal God : 
Passing through thee the edicts of his fear 
Are mellowed into music, burne abroad 
By the loud winds, though they uprend the 

sea. 
Even from its central deeps : thine empery 
Is over all ; thou wilt not brook eclipse ; 
Thou goest and returnest to His iips 
Like lightning : thou dost ever brood above 
The silence of all hearts, unutterable Love. 



To know thee is all wisdom, and old age 
Is but to know thee : dimly we behold thee 
Athwart the veils of evils which infold thee. 
We beat upon our aching hearts in rage ; 
We cry for thee ; we deem the world thy 

tomb 
As dwellers in lone planets look upon 
The mighty disk of their majestic sun. 
Hollowed in awful chasms of wheeling gloom, 
Making their day dim, so we gaze on thee. 
Come, thou of many crowns, white-robid love. 
Oh ! rend the veil in twain : all men adore 

thee ; 
Heaven crieth after thee ; earth waiteth for 

thee ; 
Breathe on thy winged throne, and it shall 

move 
In music and in light o'er land and sea. 



And now — methinks I gaze upon thee now, 
As on a serpent in his agonies 
Awe-stricken Indians; what time laid low 
And crushing the thick fragrant reeds he lies. 
When the new year warm-breathed on the 

Earth, 
Waiting to light him witli her purple skies. 
Calls to him by the fountain to uprise. 
Already with the pangs of a new birth 
Strain the hot spheres of his convulsed eyes, 
And in his writhings awful hues begin 
To wander down his sable-sheeny sides. 
Like light on troubled waters : from within 
Anon he rusheth forth with merry din. 
And in him light and joy and strength abides ; 
And from his brows a crown of living light 
Looks through the thick-stemmed woods by 

day and night. 



THE KRAKEN. 

Below the thunders of the upper deep ; 
Far, far beneath in the abysmal sea. 
His ancient, dreamless, uninvaded sleep, 
The Kraken sleepeth : faintest sunlights flee 
About his shadowy sides ; above him swell 
Huge sponges of millennial growth and 

height ; 
And far away into the sickly light. 
From many a wondrous grot and secret cell 
Unnumbered and enormous polypi 
Winnow with giant fins the slumbering green. 



There hath he lain for ages and will lie 
Battening upon huge seaworms in his sleep. 
Until the latter fire shall heat the deep ; 
Then once by man and ani;els to be seen, 
In roaring he shall rise and on the surface die. 



ENGLISH WAR-SONG. 

Who fears to die ? Who fears to die ? 
Is there any here who fears to die? 
He shall find what he fears ; and none shall 
grieve 
For the man who fears to die ; 
But the withering scorn of the many shall 
cleave 
To the man who fears to die. 

CHORUS. 

Shout for England ! 
Ho ! for England ! 
George for England ! 
Merry England ! 
England for aye ! 

The hollow at heart shall crouch forlorn, 

He shall eat the bread of common scorn ; 
It shall be steeped in the salt, salt tear. 

Shall be steeped in his own salt tear : 
Far better, far better he never were bom 

Than to shame merry England here. 
Cho. — Shout for England ! etc. 

There standeth our ancient enemy ; 

Hark ! he shouteth — the ancient enemy t 
On the ridge of the hill his banners rise ; 

They stream like fire in the skies ; 
Hold up the Lion of England on high 

Till it dazzle and blind his eyes. 
Cho. — Shout for England ! etc. 

Come along ! we alone of the earth are free ; 

The child in our cradles is bolder than he ; 

For where is the heart and strength of slaves? 

Oh ! where is the strength of slaves? 
He is weak ! we are strong : he a slave, we 
are free ; 
Come along I we will dig their graves. 
Cho. — Shout for England ! etc. 

There standeth our ancient enemy ; 

Will he dare to battle with the free? 
Spur along ! spur amain ! charge to the fight i 

Charge ! charge to the fight ! 
Hold up the Lion of England on high ! 

Shout for God and our right 1 
Cho — Shout for England ! etc. 



NATIONAL SONG. 

Thrre is no land like England 
Where'er the light of day be ; 

There are no hearts like English hearts. 
Such hearts of oak as they be. 



292 



DUALISMS— WE ARE FREE.— THE SEA FAIRIES. 



There is no land like England 
Where'er the light of day be ; 

There are no men like Englishmen, 
So tall and bold as they be. 

CHORUS. 

For the French the Pope may shrive 'em, 
For the devil a whit we heed 'em : 
As for the French, God speed 'em 

Unto their heart's desire, 
And the merry devil drive 'em 

'I'hrough the water and the fire. 

FULL CHOUUS. 

Our glory is our freedom, 
We lord it o'er the sea ; 
We are the sons of freedom, 
We are free. 

There is no land like England, 

Where'er the light of day be ; 
There are no wives like English wives, 

So fair and chaste as they be. 
There is no land like England, 

Where'er the light of day be ; 
There are no maids like English maids, 

So beautiful as they be. 
Cho. — For the French, etc. 



DUALISMS. 

Two bees within a crystal flowerbell rocked. 
Hum a lovelay to the west-wind at noon- 
tide. 
Both alike, they buzz together, 
Both alike, they hum together, 
Through and through the flowered 
heather. 
Where in a creeping cove the wave unshocked 
Lays itself calm and wide. 
Over a stream two birds of glancing 

feather 
Do woo each other, carolling together. 
Both alike, they glide together. 

Side by side ; 
Both alike, they sing together. 
Arching blue-glossed necks beneath the pur- 
ple weather. 

Two children lovelier than Love adown the 

lea are singing. 
As they gambol, lily-garlands ever stringing: 
Both inblosm white silk are frocked : 
Like, unlike, they roam together 
Under a su mmer vault of golden weather : 
Like, unlike, they sing together 
Side by side, 
MidMay's darling golden locked. 
Summer's tanling diamond eyed. 



WE ARE FREE. 

The winds, as at their hour of birth. 
Leaning upon the wingi^d sea. 



Breathed low around the rolling earth 
With mellow preludes, " We are free." 

The streams through many a lilied row 
Down-carolling lo the crisped sea, 

Low-tinkled with a bell-like flow 
Atween the blossoms, " We are free." 



THE SEA FAIRIES.* 

Slow sailed the weary mariners, and saw 
Between the green brink and the running 

foam 
White limbs unrobed in a crystal air. 
Sweet faces, roiuided arms, and bosoms prest 
To little harps of gold : and while they mused. 
Whispering to each other half in tear. 
Shrill music reached them on the middle sea. 



Whither away, whither away, whither 

away ? Fly no more : 
Whither away wi' the singmg sail ? whith- 
er away wi' the oar ? 
Whither away from the high green field and 
the happy blossoming shore? 
Weary mariners, hither away. 

One and all, one and all. 
Weary mariners, come and play ; 
We will sing to you all the day ; 
Furl the sail and the foam will fall 
F.'om the proiv ! One and all 
Furl the sail ! Drop the oar ! 
Leap ashore. 
Know danger and trouble and toil no more. 
Whither away wi' the sail and the oar.' 
Drop the oar. 
Leap ashore. 
Fly no more ! 
Whither away wi' the sail? whither away 
wi' the oar? 
Day and night to the billow the fountain 

calls : 
Down shower the gambolling waterfalls 

From wandering over the lea ; 
They freshen the silvery-crmi'son shells. 
And thick with white bells the clover-hill 
swells 
High over the full-toned sea. 
Merrily carol the revelling gales 

Over the islands free : 
From the green seabanks the rose down 
trails 
To the happy brimmed sea. 
Come hither, come hither and be our lords, 

For merry brides are we : 
We will kiss sweet kisses, and speak sweet 
words. 
O listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten 
With pleasure and love and revelry ; 
O listen, listen, your eyes shall gli.sten, 
When the sharp clear twang of the golden 
chords 
Runs up the ridged sea. 

* Uri^nal foriD. 



Ot peovTe?. — SONNE T. — TO . 



Ye will not find so happy a shore, 
Weary mariners ! all the world o'er ; 

O, fiy no more ! 
Hearken ye, hearken ye, sorrow shall 
darken ye, 
Danger and trouble and toil no more ; 
Whither away ? 
Drop the oar ; 
Hither away 
Leap ashore ; 
O fly no more — no more : 
Whither away, whither away, whither away 
with the sail and the oar ? 



Oi peofTcs. 



All thoughts, all creeds, all dreams are true, 
All visions wild and strange ; 



Man is the measure of all truth 

Unto himself. All truth is change, 

All men do walk in sleep, and all 
Have faith in that they dream : 

For all things are as they seem to all, 
And all things flow like a stream. 



There is no rest, no calm, no pause. 

Nor good nor ill, nor light nor shade, 
Nor essence nor eternal laws : 

For nothing is, but all is made. 
But if I dream that all these are, 

They are to me for that 1 dream : 
For all things are as they seem to all. 

And all things flow like a stream. 

Argal — this very opinion is only true rela- 
tively to the flowing philosophers. 



POEMS PUBLISHED IN THE EDITION OF 1833, 
AND OMITTED IN LATER EDITIONS. 



4- 



SONNET. 

Mine be the strength of spirit fierce and free, 
Like some broad river rushing dinvu aJDiiL-, 
With the selfsame impulse wherewith he was 

thrown 
From his loud fount upon the echoing lea : — 
Which with increasing might doth forwaid 

flee 
By town, and tower, and hill, and cape, and 

isle. 
And in the middle of the green salt sea 
Keeps his blue waters fresh for many a niile. 
Mine be the Power which ever to its swav 
Will win the wise at once, and by degrees 
May into rncongenial spirits flipw : 
Even as the great gulf stream of Florida 
Floats far away into the Northern seas 
The lavish growths of southern Mexico. 



TO 



All good things have not keiit aloof, 
Nor wandered into other ways ; 

I have not lacked thy mild reproof. 
Nor golden largess of thy praise, 
But life is full of weary days 



Shake hands, my friend, across the brink 
()i that deep grave to which I go. 

Shake hands once more : I cannot sink 

.So far — far down, but I shall know 

Thy voice, and answer from below. 



When, in the darkne.ss over me, 
'I'he four-handed mole shall scrape. 

Plant thdu no dusky cypress-tree. 

Nor wreathe thy cap with doleful crape, 
But pledge me in the flowing grape. 



.And when the sappy field and wood 
Cjrow green beneath the showery gray. 

And rugged barks begin to bud. 

And through damp holts, new flushed with 

May. 
King sudden laughters of the Jay ; 



Then let wise Nature work her will. 
And on my clay the darnels grow. 

Come only when the days are still. 
And at my headstone whisper low. 
And tell me if the woodbines blow. 



If thou art blest, my mother's smile 
Ifndimmed, if bees are on the wing: 

'I'lien cease, my friend, a little while, 
That I may hear the throstle sing 
His bridal song, the boast of spring. 



Sweet as the noise in parched plains 
Of bubbling wells inat fret the stones 

(If any sense in me remains). 

Thy words will be ; thy cheerful tones 
As welcome to my crumbling bones. 



BONA PA R TE. — SONNE TS. — THE HESPERIDES. 
BONAPARTE. THE HESPERIDES. 



He thought to quell the stubborn hearts of 

oak, 
Madman ! — to chain with chains, and bind 

with bands 
That island queen that sways the floods and 

lands 
From Ind to Ind, but in fair daylight woke, 
When from her wooden walls, lit by sure 

hands, 
With thunders, and with lightnings, and with 

smoke, 
Peal after peal, the British battle broke. 
Lulling the brine against the Coptic sands. 
We taught him lowlier moods, when Elsi- 

nore 
Heard the war moan along the distant sea. 
Rocking with shattered spars, with sudden 

fires 
Flamed over : at Trafalgar yet once more 
We taught hijn : late he learned humility 
Perforce, like those whom Gideon schooled 

with briers. 



SONNETS. 



EKAUTY, passing beauty ! sweetest Sweet ! 
How canst thou let me waste my youth in 

sighs ? 

1 only ask to sit beside thy feet. 

Thou knowest I dare not look into thine 
eyes. 
Might I but kiss thy hand ! I dare not fold 

My arms about thee — scarcely dare to 
speak. 
And nothing seems to me so wild and bold, 

As with oiie kiss tf> touch thy blessed cheek. 
Methinks if I should kiss thee, no control 

Within the thrilling biain cnuld keep afloat 

I'lie subtle spirit. Even while 1 spoke. 
The bare word kiss hath made my inner soul 

To tremble like a lutestring, ere the note 

Hath melted m the silence that it broke. 



But were I loved, as I desire to be. 
What is there in the great sphere of the earth, 
And range of evil between death and birth. 
That I should fear, — if I were loved by 

thee ? 
All the inner, all the outer world of pain 
Clear Love would pierce and cleave, if thou 

wert mine, 
As I have heard that, somewhere in the rnain. 
Fresh-water springs come up through bitter 

brine. 
'T were joy, not fear, clasped hand-in-hand 

with thee. 
To wait for death — mute — careless of all 

ills, 
Ajjart upon a mountain, though the surge 
Of some new deluge from a thousand bills 
Flung leagues of roaring foam into the gorge 
Below us, as far on as eye could see. 



" Hesperus and his daughters three. 
That sing about the j4 olden tree." 

Co>nus. 

The North-wind fall'n, in the new-starrdd 

night 
Zidonian Hanno, voyaging beyond 
The hoary promontory of Soloe 
Past Thymiaterion, in calmed bays. 
Between the southern and the western Horn, 
Heard neither warbling of the nightingale, 
Nor melody of the Libyan lotus flute 
Blown seaward from the shore ; but from a 

slope 

That ran bloonvbright into the Atlantic blue. 
Beneath a highland leaning down a weight 
Of cliffs, and zoned below with cedar shade. 
Came voices, like the voices in a dream, 
Continuous, till he reached the outer sea. 



The golden apple, the golden apple, the hal 

lowed tVuit, 
Guard it well, guard it warily, 
Singing airily, 

Standing about the charmed root. 
Round about all is mute. 
As the snow-field on the mountain-peaks. 
As the sand-field at the mountain-foot. 
Crocodiles in briny creeks 
Sleep and stir not : all is mute. 
If ye sing not. if ye make false measure, 
We shall lose eternal pleasure, 
Worth eternal want ot rest. 
Laugh not loudly : watch the treasure 
Of the wisdom of the West. 
In a corner wisdom whispers. Five and ; 

three 
(Let it not be preached abroad) make an 

awful mystery. 
For the blossom unto threefold music blow- 

elh ; 
Evermore it is boiTi anew : 
And the sap to ihreetbld music floweth, 
Frt^m the root 
Drawn in the dark. 
Up to the fruit. 

Creeping under the fragrant bark. 
Liquid gold, honeysweet, thro' and thro'. 
Keen-eyed Sisters, singing airily. 
Looking warily 
Every way. 

Guard the apple night and day. 
Lest one from the East come and take it 

away. 



Father Hesper, Father Hesper, watch, watch, 

ever and aye. 
Looking under silver hair with a silver eye. 
Father, twinkle not thy steadfast sight ; 
Kingdoms lapse, and climates change, aad 

races die : 
Honor comes with mystei^ ; 
Hoarded wisdom brings delight. 



ROSALIND. 



295 



Number, tell them over and number 
How many tha mystic fniit-tree holds 
Lest the red-combed dragon slumber 
Rolled together in purple folds. 
Look to him. father, lest he wink, and the 

golden apple be stol'n away. 
For his ancient lieart is drunk with over- 

watcliings night and day. 
Round about the hallowed fruit-tree juried — 
Sing away, sing aloud evermore in ihe wind, 

without slop, 
Lest his scal.'d eyelid drop. 
For he is older than the world. 
If he waken, we waken. 
Rapidly levelling eager eyes. 
If he sleep, we sleep, 
Dropping the eyelid over the eyes. 
If the golden apple be taken, 
The world will be overwise. 
Five links, a golden chain, are we, 
Hesper, the dragon, and sisters three, 
Bound about the golden tree. 



V'ather Hesper, Father Hesper, watch, watch, 

night and day, 
Lest the old wound of the world be healed, 
The glory unseal id. 
The golden apple stolen away. 
And the ancient secret reveal ;d. 
Look from west to east along : 
Father, old Hiniala weakens, Caucasus is 

bold and strong. 
Wandering waters unto wandering waters 

call"; 
Let them clash together, foam and fall. 
Ou' of watchiugs, out of wiles. 
Comes the bliss of secret smiles. 
All things are not told to all. 
Half-round the mantling night is drawn, 
Pin-ple fringed with even and dawn, 
Hesper hateth Phosphor, evening hateth 

morn 



Every flower and every fruit the redolent 
breath 

Of this warm sea-wind ripeneth, 

Arching the billow in his sleep; 

But the land-wind wandereth. 

Broken by the highland steep, 
, 3'wo streams upon the violet deep ; 
; /F'or the western sun and the western star, 
' 'And the low west-wind, breathing afar, 

The end of day and beginning of night 

Make the apple holy and bright ; 

Holy and bright, round and full, bright and 
blest. 

Mellowed in a Land of rest ; 

Watch it warily day and night ; 

All good thiiigs are in the west. 

Till mid noon the cool east light 

Is shut out by the tall hillbrow ; 

But when the full-faced sunset yellowly 

Stays on the flowering arch of the bough. 

The luscious fruitage clustereth mellowly, 

Golden-kernelled, golden-cored, 



Sunset-ripened above on the tree. 

The world is wasted with fire and sword, 

But the apple of gold hangs over the sea. 

Kive links, a golden chain are we, 

Hesper, the dragon, and sisters three, 

Daughters three, 

Bound about 

The gnarled bole of the charmed tree. 

The golden apple, the golden apple, the hal 

lowed fruit, 
Guard it well, guard it warily, 
Watch it warily, 
.Singing airily. 
Standing about the charmed root. 



ROSALIND. 



My Rosalind, my Rosalind, 

My frolic falcon, with bright eyes. 

Whose 'ixfi^ delight, from any height of rapid 

flight. 
Stoops at all game that wing the skies, 
My Rosalind, my Rosalind, 
My bright-eyed, wild-eyed falcon, whither, 
Careless both of wind and weather, 
Whitl-.er fly ye, what game spy ye. 
Up or down the streaming wind .' 



The qviick lark's clo;est-carol'ed strains, 

The shadow rushing up the sea, 

The lightning flash fttween the rains. 

The sunlight driving down the lea, 

The leaping stream, the very wind, 

That will not stay, upon his way. 

To stoop the cowslip to the plains, 

Is not so clear and bold and free 

As you, my falcon Rosalind. 

You care not for another's pains. 

Because you are the soul of joy, 

Bright metal all without alloy. 

Life shoots and glances thro' your veins, 

.'\nd flashes off a thousand ways 

Through lips and eyes in subtle rays. 

Your hawkeyes are keen and bright. 

Keen with triumph, watching still 

'I'o pierce me through with pointed light; 

But oftentimes they flash and glitter 

Like sunshine on a dancing rill. 

And your words are seeming-bitter, 

Sharp and few, but seeming-bitter 

From excess of swift delight. 



Come down, come home, my Rosalind, 
My gay young hawk, my Rosalind : 
Too long )'ou keep the upper skies ; 
'J'oo long you roam and wlieel at will ; 
But we must hood your random eyes, 
'I'hat care not whom they kill. 
And your cheek, whose brilliant hue 
Is so sparkling- fresh to view, 
.Some red heath-flower in the dew. 
Touched with sunrise. We must bind 



SONG. — KA TE. — SONNE TS. 



And keep you fast, my Rosalind, 

Fast, fast, my wild-eyed Rosalind, 

And clip your wings, and make you love: 

When we have lured you from above. 

And that delight of frolic flight, by day or 

night, 
From north to south ; 
Will bind you fnst in silken cords, 
And kiss away the bitter words 
From off your rosy mouth.* 



SONG. 



Who can say 

Why To-day 

To-morrow will be yesterday ? 

Who can tell 

Why to smell 

The violet recalls the dewy prime 

Of youth and buried time ? 

The cause is nowhere found in rhyme. 



KATE. 



I KNOW her by her anp;ry air, 

Her bright black eyes, l;er briijit Ijlack hair, 

Her rapid laughters wild arid shrill, 
As laughters of the woodpecker 

From the bosom of a hill. 

'T is Kate — slie say,e!h wliat she will : 
For Kale hath an unbridled tongue, 

Clear as the iwangiug of a harp. 
Her heart is like a tlirobbing star. 

AtrniOK'SNOTR. — Perh-iiK the following lilies 
ill : 



of tlio tc.\t, wlier;; they weri 



may be alio 

tiaiiy they m.nlc pan 

iiiaiiiie^tly sLi^jerHuoui, 

My Ko;,alin(l, inv Ro^nlind, 
Bold, subtle, car. i ^ 1 ,. il,,,.!. 
Is one of those »ii life 

(X iir.varcl wci; > ; ' i i • ■<' : 

To whom the slope au.l Mir, in of I. 
Tlle lire li-jforc. the lilc l.L-hiu.l, 
In tlie car, Iroiii far and near, 
Chiineth iimsically clear. 
My falcon-hearted Rosalind, 
Full-sailed before a vigorous wind. 
Is one of those who cannot weep 
For others' woes, but overleap 
All the petty shocks and fears 
That trouble life in early years, 
With a flash of frolic sc orn 
And keen delighi, that never falls 
Aw.iy from freshness, sel -upborne 
With such gladness .as, whenever 
'I'he fre-.li-llushiu.' snrinirtime calls 



the I'.oodii 
mi' fishex 



f>ol. 



rll ill 



My Rosa 1. 11, V IO.s,,l 

Because u,, -ha.iow ,,11 you f.ills, 
Think you liearts are tenuis b,ills 
To play v^■ith. wanton Rosalind V 



an,l bay. 



Kate hath a spirit ever strung 

Like a new bow, and bright and sharp; 

As edges of the scymitar. 
Whence shall she take a fitting mate.' 

For Kate no common love will feel : 
My woman-soldier, gallant Kate, 

As pure and true as blades of steel. 



Kate saith "the world is void of might." 
Kate saith " the men are gilded flies." 
Kate snaps her fingers at my vows ; 
Kate will not hear of lovers' sighs. 
I would I were an armed knight, 
Far famed for well-won enterprise. 

And wearing on my swarthy brows 
The garland of new-wreathed emprise : 
For in a moment I would pierce 
The blankest files of clanging fight. 
And strongly strike to left and right, 
In dreaming of my lady's eyes. 

Oh ! Kate loves well the bold and fierce; 
Rut none are bold enough for Kate, 
bhe cannot find a fitting mate. 



SONNET 

WRITTEN ON HE.\RING OF THE OUTBREAK 
OK THE POLISH INSURl;ECTION. 

Blow ye the trumpet, gather from afar 
The hosts to battle : be not bought and sold. 
Arise, brave Poles, the boldest of the bold ; 
Break through your iron shackles — fling 

them far. 
O for those days of Piast, ere tlie Czar 
Grew to his strength among his deserts cold ; 
When even to Moscow's cupolas were rolled 
The growing murmurs of the Polish war ! 
Now must your noble auger blaze out more 
Than when from SobiesUi, clan by clan, 
The Moslem myriads fell, and fled before — 
I'han when Zamoysky smote the Tartar 

Khan ; 
Than earlier, wlien on the Baltic shore 
Boleslas drove the I'omeranian. 



SONNET a 

ON THE RESULT OF THE I.ATE RU.SSIAN | 

INVASION OF I'OL.XND. ° 

How long, O God, shall men be ridden down, 

And trampled under bv the last and least 

Of men? The heart of Poland hath not j 

ceased i 

To quiver, though her sacred blood doth U 

drown | 

The fields ; and oul of every mouldering town | 

t.'ries to Thee, lest brute Power be increased, H 

Till that o'ergrown llarbarian in the East g 

Transgress his ample bound to some new K 

crown : — I| 

Cries to I'hee, " F.ord, liow long shall these | 

things be.' B 
, ^ ,■ ■■■ I ■ -j=^A— ^^ 



SONNET. — A FRAGMENT. 



How long shall the icy-liearted Muscovite 
Oppress the region ?" Us, O Just nnd (lood. 
Forgive, who smiled when she was torn in 

three ; 
Us, who stand noiv^ when we should aid the 

right — 
A matter to be wept with tears of blood I 



SONNET. 

As when with downcast eyes we muse and 

brood, 
And ebb into a former life, or seem 
To lapse far back in a confused dream 
I'o states of mystical similitude ; 
If one but speaks or hems or stirs his chair, 
Ever the wonder waxeth more and more. 
So that we say, "All this hath been before, 
All this hath been, 1 know not when or 

where." 
So, friend, when first I looked upon your face. 
Our thought gave answer, each to each, so 

true, 
Opposed mirrors each reflecting each — 
Ahho' I knew not in what time or place, 
Meiliought that I had often met with you. 
And each had lived in the other's mind and 

speech. 



O DARLING ROOM. 



O DARLING room, my heart's delight. 
Dear room, the apple of my sight. 



With thy two couches soft and white, 
There is no room so exquisite. 
No little rocni so warm and bright, 
Wl.erein to read, wherein to write. 



For I the Nonnenwerth have seen, 
And Oberwiiiter's vineyards green. 
Musical Lurlei ; and between 
'I'he hills to Bingen have 1 been, 
liingen in Darmstadt, wlicre the Rhene 
Curves toward Mentz, a woody scene. 



Yet never did there meet my sight. 

In any town to left or right, 

A little room so exquisite. 

With two such couches soft and white '■ 

Not any room so warm and bright, 

Wherein to read, wherein to write. 



TO CHRISTOPHER NORTH 

You did late review my lays, 

Crusty Christopher ; 
You did mingle blame and praise. 

Rusty Christopher. 
When I learnt from whom it came, 
I forgave you all the blame. 

Musty Christopher : 
I could not forgive the praise, 

Fusty Christopher. 



FUGITIVE 

NO MORE.* 



SAD No More ! O sweet No More I 
O strange No More ! 

By a mossed brookbank on a stone 

1 smelt a wildweed flower alone ; 
There was a ringing in my ears. 

And both my eyes gushed out with tears. 
Surely all pleasant things had gone before. 
Low-buried fathom deep beneath with thee. 
No More! 



ANACREONTICS.* 

With roses musky-breathed, 
And drooping daffodilly. 
And silver-leaved lily, 
And ivy darkly-wreathed, 

* From the Gem, a literary anniuil, for 1831. 



POEMS. 



I wove a crown before her. 
For her I love so dearly, 
A garland for Lenora. 
With a silken cord I bound it. 
Lenora, laughing clearly 
A light and thrilling laughter. 
About her forehead wound it, 
And loved me ever aftpr. 



A FRAGMENT.* 



Where is the Giant of the Sun, which stood 
In the midnoon the glory of old Rhodes, 
A perfect Idol with profulgent brows 
Far-sheening down the purple seas to those 
Who sailed from Mizraim underneath the star 
Named of the Dragon — and between whose 
limbs 



* From the Gem, a literary : 



Ell, for 1S61. 



zgS 



SONNETS - THE NEW TIMON AND THE POETS. 



Of brassy vaslness broad-blown Argosies 
Drave into liaveii ? Vet endure unscathed 
Of changeful cycles the great Pyramids 
Broad-based amid the fleeting sands, and 

sloped 
Into the slumberous summer noon ; but 

where, 
Mysterious Egypt, are thine obelisI<s 
Graven with goigeous emblems undiscerned ? 
Thy ))lacid Sj hinxes brooding o'er the Nile? 
'ihy shadowing Idols in the solitudes. 
Awful Memnonian countenances calm 
Looking athwart the burning flats, far n(if 
Seen by tlie high-uecUed camel on the verge 
Journeying southward? Where are thy n-,ou- 

uments 
Piled by the strong and sunborn Anakim 
Over their crowr.ed brethren On and ( )fH ? 
Tliy Memnon when his peaceful lips are hist 
With earliest rays, that from his mother's eyes 
Flov/ over the Arabian bay, no more 
Breathes low into the charmed ears nf morn 
Clear melody flattering the crisped Nile 
By columned 'I'hebes. Old Memphis hath 

g(jne down : 
The Pharaohs are no more : somewhere in 

death 
They sleep with staring eyes and gilded lips. 
Wrapped round with spiced cerements in old 

grots 
Rock-hewn and sealed for ever. 



I But in the middle of the sombre valley 
I The crisp 'd waters whisper musicaily, 
I And all the haunted piacc is dark and holy. 
The nighting.de, with long and low preamble, 
Warbled from yonder knoil of soleum 

larches. 
And in and out the woodbine's flowery 
arches 
The summer midges wove their wanton 
gai.ibol, 
And all the white-stemmed pinewood slept 

above — 
When ill this valley first I told my love. 



SONNET.* 

Me my own fate to lasting sorrow doometli : 
Thy woes are birds of passage, transitory : 
Thy spirit, circled with a living glory. 
In summer still a summer joy resumeth 
Alone my hopeless melancholy gloometh, 
I^ike a lone cypress, through the twilight 
hoary. 
From an old garden where no flower bioom- 
eth. 
One cypre.ss on an island promontory. 
But yet my lonely spirit follows thine. 

As round the rolling earth night follows 
day : 
But yet thy lights on my horizon shine 

Into my night, when thou art far away. 
I am so dark, alas ! and thou so bright, 
When we two meet there 's never perfect 
light. 



SONNET.* 

Check every outflash, every ruder sally 
Of thought and speech ; speak low and 
give up wholly 
Thy spirit to mild-minded melancholy ; 
This IS the place. Through yonder poplar 
valley 
Below the blue-green river windeth slowly ; 

• Friendship's Offering, 1833. 



THE SKIPPING-ROPE.* 

SunE never yet was Antelope 

Could slup so lightly by. 
Slri;.J off, or else my skipping-rope 

Will hit you in the eye. 
How lightly whirls the skipping-rope ! 

How fairy-like you fly ! 
Go. get you gone, you muse and mope ■ 

1 hate that silly sigh. 
Nay, dearest, teach me how to hope. 

Or tell me how to die. 
There, take it, take my skipping-rope, 

And hang yourself thereby. 



THE NEW TIMON AND THE 
POETS, t 

We know him, out of .Shakespeare's art. 
And those fine curses which he spoke ; 

The old Timon, with his noble heart. 
That, strongly loathing, greatly brokj. 

So died the Old : here comes the New. 

Regard him : a familiar face : 
I thought we knew him : What, it 's you. 

The padded man — that wears the stays — 

Who killed the girls and thrilled the boys 
With dandy pathos when you wrote I 

A Lion, you, that made a noise. 
And shook a mane en papillotes. 

And once you tried the Muses too ; 

You failed. Sir : therefore now you turn, 
To fall on those who are to you 

As Captain is to Subaltern. 

But men of long-enduring hopes, 
And careless what this hour may bring. 

Can pardon little would-be Popes 

And Brummkls, when they try to sting. 

An Artist, Sir, should rest in Art, 

And waive a little of his claim; 
To have the deep Poetic heart 

Is more than all poetic fame. 

• ( Imittecl from the L-tlition of 1842. 
t I'lililished in Punch, February, , 1846, siRiieil 
" Alcibiades." 



5 TANZA S ~ SOXNE T. - BRITONS, GUARD YOUR O IV N. 299 



But you, Sir, yon are hard to please ; 

Yon never luuk but half content ; 
Nor Hke a gentleman at ease, 

With mural breadth of temperament. 

And what with spites and what with fears, 

You cannot let a body be : 
It 's alw.iys ringing in your ears, 

" I'hey call this man as good as >«<.*." 

What profits now to understand 
The merits of a spotless shirt — 

A dapper boot — a little hand — 
If half the little soul is dirt? 

You talk of tinsel ! why, we see 

The old mark of rouge upon your cheeks. 
Yon prate of Nature ! you are he 

That spilt his lil'e about the cliques. 

A TiMON you ! Nay, nay, for shame : 

It looks too arrogant a jest — 
The fierce old man — to lake his name. 

You bandbox. Otf, and let him rest. 



STANZAS.* 

What time I wasted youthfid hours, 
One of the shining wingi'd powers, 
Show'd me vast cliffs with crown of towers. 

As towards the gracious light I bow'd, 
They seeni'd high palaces and proud. 
Hid now and then with sliding cloud. 

He said, " The labor is not sm.ill ; 
Yet winds the pathway free to all : — 
Take care thou dost not fear to fall ! ' 



SONNET 

TO WIT.LIAM CHARLES MACREADY.t 

Farewki.l, Macready, since to-night we 
p.irt. 
F'uU-handed thunders often have confest 
Thy power, well-used to move the public 
breast. 
We thank thee with one voice, and from the 

heart. 
Farewell, Macrendy: since this night we part. 
Go, take thine honors home : rank with the 

best, 
Garrick, and statelier Keinble, and the rest 
Who made a nation purer thro' their art. 
Thine is it, that our Dran^a did not die. 
Nor flicker down to brainless pantomime, 
And those gilt gauds men-children swarm 
to see. 
Farewell, Macready ; moral, gi-ave, sublime 
Our Shakespeare's bland and universal eye 
Dwells pleased, thro' twice a hundred 
years, on thee. 

• The Keepsake, 1851. 

f Read by Mr. John Forbter at a dinner ^ven to 
Mr. Macready, March 1, 1851, on his retircuicut 
from the stage. 



BRITONS, GUARD YOUR OWN * 

Rise, Britons, rise, if manhood be not dead ; 
The world's Ir.st tc^npest darkms overhead; 

The Fope has bless'd him ; 

The Church caress'd him ; 
He triumphs; maybe we shall stand alone. 

Britons, guard your own. 

His ruthless host is bought with plunder'd 

gold. 
By lyingpricststhe peasants' votes controll'd. 

All freedom vanish'd, 

'I'he true men banish'd, 
He triumphs ; maybe we shall stand alone. 

Britons, guaid your own. 

Peace-lovers we — sweet Peace we all de- 
sire — 
Peace-lovers we — but who can trust a liar? — 
Peace-lovers, haters 
Of shameless traiiors. 
We hate not France, but this man's heart of 
stone, 
Britons, guard your own. 

We hate not France, but France has lost her 

voice. 
This man is France, the man they call het 
choice. 
By tricks and spying. 
By craft and lyiu.L', 
And murder was her freedom overthrown. 
Britons, guard your own. 

" Vive I'Kmpereur" may follow by and by; 
" God save the Queen " is here a truer cry. 

God save the Nation, 

I'he toleration. 
And the free speech that makes a Briton 
knowi: 

Britons, guard your own. 

Rome's dearest daughter now is captive 

France, 
The Jesuit laugh.s, and reckoning on his 
chance. 
Would unrelenting, 
Kill all dissenting. 
Till we were left to fight for truth alone. 
Britons, guard your own. 

Call home your shii)s across Biscayan tides. 
To blow the battle from their oaken sides. 

Why waste they yonder 

Their idle thunder? 
Why st?y they there to guard a foreign throne? 

Seamen, guard your own. 

We were the best of marksmen long ago, 
We won old battles with our strength, the 
bow. 

Now practise, yeomen. 

Like those bowmen. 
Till your balls fly as their shafts have flown. 

Yeomen, guard your own. 

* The Examiner, 1852. 



300 THE THIRD OF FEBRUARY, i?,^:. —HAiXDS ALL ROUND. 



His soldier-ridden Highness might incline 
To take Sardinia, Belgium, or the Rhine : 

Sliall we stand idle, 

Nor seek to bridle 
His rude aggressions, till we stand alone? 

Make their cause your own. 

Should he land here, and for one hour pie vr.i). 
There must no man go back to bear the tale : 

No man to bear it — 

Swear it ! we swear it ! 
Although we fight the banded world alone, 

We swear to guard our own. 



THE THIRD OF FEBRUARY, 1S52.* 

My lords, we heard you speak ; you told us 
all 
That England's honest censure went too 
far; 
That our free press should cease to brawl, 
Not sting the fiery Frenc iinan into war. 
It was an ancient privilege, my lords. 
To fling whate'er we felt, not fearing, into 
words. 

We love not this French God, this child of 
Hell, 
Wild War, who breaks the converse of the 
wise ; 
But though we love kind Peace so well, 

Wc dare not, e'en by silence, sanction lies. 
It might safe be our censures to withdraw ; 
And yet, my lords, not well ; there is a higher 
law. 

As long as we remain, we must speak fi-ee. 
Though all the storm of Europe on us 

break ; 
No little German state are we. 

But the one voice in Europe ; we nmst 

speak ; 
That if to-night our greatness were struck 

dead. 
There might remain some record of the 

things we said. 

If you be fearful, then must we be bold. 
Our Britain cannot salve a tyrant o'er. 
Better the waste Atlantic roU'd 

On her and us and ours for evermore. 
What ! have we fought for freedom from our 

prime. 
At last to dodge and palter with a public 
crime ? 

Shall we fear him ? our own we never feared. 
From our first Charles by force we wrung 
our claims, 
Prick'd by the Papal spur, we rear'd. 

And flung the burden of the second James. 
! I say we never fear'd ! and as for these, 
' We broke tlicm on the land, we drove them 
on the seas. 

j • The Examiner, 1S52, and signed " Merlin." 



And you, my lords, you make the people 
muse. 
In doubt if you be of our Barons' breed — 
Were i hose your sires who fpught at Lewes? 

Is this the manly strain of Kunnymede ? 
O fall'n nobility, that, overawed. 
Would lisp in lioney'd whispers of this mon- 
strous fraud. 

IVe feel, at least, that silence here were sin. 

Not oursthe fault if we have feeble hosts — 

If easy patrons of tlieir kin 

Have left the last free race with naked 

coasts ! 

They knew t.ie precious things they had to 

guard : 
For us, we will not spare the tyrant one hard 
word. 

Though ni.ggard throats of Manchester may 
bawl, 
What England was, shall her true sons 
forget ? 
We are not cotton-spinners all. 

But some lo\e England, and her Innor yet. 
And these in our Therniopyl.t shall stand. 
And hold against the world the honor of the 
land. 



HANDS ALL ROUND.* 

First drink a h»a!th, this solemn night, 

A health to England, every guest ; 
That man 's the best cosmopolite 

Who loves his native country best. 
May freedom's oak for ever live 

V/ith stronger life from day to day ; 
That man 's the best Conservative 

Who lops the mouldered branch away. 

Hands all round ! 
God the tyrant's hope confound ! 
To this great cause of Freedom drink, my 
friends. 
And the great name of England, round and 
round. 

A health to Europe's honest men I 

Heaven guard them fiom her tyrants' jails ! 
From wronged Poerio's noisome den. 
From iron limbs and tortured nails ! 
We curse the crimes of southern kings. 

The Russian whips and Austrian rods — 
We likewise have our evil things ; 

Too much we make our Ledgers, Gods. 

Yet hands all round ! 
God the tyrant's cause confound ! 
To Europe's better health we drink, my 
friends. 
And the great name of England, round and 
round ! 

What health to France, if France be she. 
Whom martial progress only charms.'' 

Yet tell her — better to be free 

Than vanquish all the world in arms. 

• The Examiner, 1852, and signed " MerKn." 



rHE 1VAR. — O.V A SPITEFUL LETTEJ?. — 1S65- iS66. 



Hjr fr3ntic city's flashing heats 

But lire, to blast, the hopes of men. 
Why change tlie titles of yoiir streets? 
You fools, you Ml want them all again. 

Hands all round ! 
Cod the tyrant's cause confound ! 
To France, the wiser France, we drink, my 
friends. 
And the great name of England, round and 
round. 

Gigantic daughter of the West, 

We drink to thee across the flood. 
We know thee and we love thee best. 

For art tliou not of liritish blood ? 
Should war's mad blast again be blown, 

Permit not tliou the tyrant powers 
To fight thy mother here alone, 

But let thy broadsides roar with ours. 
Hands all round ! 

God the tyrant's cause confound ! 
To our dear kinsmen of the West, my friends, 

And the great name of England, round and 
round. 

O rise, our strong Atlantic sons, 

When war against our freedom springs ! 
O speak to Europe through your guns ! 

They can be understood by kings. 
You must not mix our ()ueen with those 

That wish to keep their pec.ple fools ; 
Our freedom's foemen are her foes, 

She comprehends the race she rules. 
Hands all round ! 

God the tyrant's cause confound ! 
To our dear kinsman in the West, my friends. 

And the great name of England, round and 
round. 



THE WAR.* 

There is a sound of thunder afar. 

Storm in the South that darkens the day. 
Storm of battle and thunder of war, 
Well, if it do not roll our way. 
Form ! form ! Riflemen form ! 
Ready, be ready to meet the storm ! 
Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen form ! 

Be not deaf to the sound that warns ! 

Be not gull'd by a despot's plea ! 
Are figs of thistles, or grapes of thorns? 
Mow should a despot set men free? 
Form ! form ! Riflemen form ! 
Ready, be ready to meet the storm ! 
Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen form 1 

Let your Reforms for a moment go. 

Look to your butts and take good aims- 
Better a rotten borough or so, 
Thau a rotten fleet or a city in flames I 

• London Tuues, May 9, 1859. 



Form ! form ! Riflemen form ! 
Ready, be ready to meet the storm ! 
Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen form ! 

Form, be ready to do or die ! 

Form in Freedom's name and the Queen's! 
True, that we have a faithful ally. 

But only the Devil knows what he means. 
Form I form ! Riflemen form ! 
Ready, be ready to meet the storm I 
Riflemen, riflemen, riliemen form ! 

T. 



ON A SPITEFUL LETTER.* 

Heke, it is here — the close of the year, 

And with it a spiteful letter. 
My fame in song has done him much wrong. 

For himself has done much better. 

foolish bard, is your lot so hard. 
If men negiect your pages? 

1 think not much of yours or of mine : 
1 hear the roll of the ages. 

This fallen leaf, is n't fame as brief 

My rhymes may have been the stronger. 

Yet hate me not, but abide your lot ; 
1 last but a moment longer. 

O faded leaf, is n't fame as brief? 

What room is here for a hater ? 
Yet the yellow leaf hates the greener leaf, 

For it hangs one moment later. 

Greater than I — is n't that your cry ? 

And 1 shall live to see it. 
Well, if it be so, so it is, you know; 

And it it be so — so be it ! 

O summer leaf, is n't life as brief? 

But this is the time of hollies. 
And my heart, my heart is an evergreen : 

1 haie the spites and the follies. 



.1865- i866.t 

I STOOD on a lower in the wet, 

And New Year and Old Year met. 

And winds were roaring and blowing ; 

And I said, " O years that meet in tears. 

Have ye aught that is worth the knowing? 

Science enough and exploring. 

Wanderers coming and going. 

Matter enough for deploring, 

But aught that is worth the knowing ? " 

.Seas at my teet were flowing, 

Waves on the shingle pouring. 

Old Year roaring and blowing. 

And New Year blowing and roaring. 

• Once a Week, January 4, 1868, 
t Good Words, March, 1868. 



THE H-' IN DO IV. 



THE WINDOW 



OR, 

THE SONGS OF THE WRENS. 



WORDS WRITTEN FOR MUSIC. 
THE MUSIC BY ARTHUR SULLIVAN. 

FOUK years ago Mr. Sullivan requested me to write a little soiiff-cyde, German fashion, for Iiini to 
exercise his art upon. He liaJ been very successful in setting such nlci songs as " Orplieus with liis 
I.ute," and 1 drest up forliiui, [tartly in the old style, a puppet whose aliuust ttnly merit is. i>erhai.'S, that 
it can dance to Mr. Siillivan's instrument. 1 am sorry that my fnur ycar-<jld [uippet should have to 
dance at all in the dark shadow of these days ; but tlie music is now cumpletetl, and I am bound by 
iny promise. 

A. Tennvson. 

December, 1870. 



ON THE HILL. 

The lights and shadows fly ! 
Yonder itbrightens and darkens down on tlie 
plain. 
A jewel, a jewel dear to a lover's eye ! 
O is it the brook, or a pool, or her window- 
pane. 
When the winds are up in the morning? 

Clonds that are racing above. 
And winds and lights and shadows that can- 
not be still, 
All running on one way to the ht.nie of my 
love. 
You are all running on, and I stand on the 
slope of the hill, 
And the winds are up in thj morning ! 

Follow, follow the chase ! 
And my thoughts are as quick and as quick, 
ever on, on, on. 
O lights, are you flying over her sweet 
little face ? 
And my heart is there before you are come 
and gone. 
When the winds are up in the morning ! 

Follow them down the slope ! 
And I follow them down to the window-pane 
of my dear. 
And it brightens and darkens and bright- 
ens like my hope. 
And it darkens and brightens and darkens 
like my fear. 
And the winds are up in the morning. 



AT THE WINDOW. 

Vine, vine and eglantine. 
Clasp her window, trail and twine ! 
Rose, rose and clematis. 
Trail and twine and clasp and kiss. 
Kiss, ki.ss ; and make her a bower 
All of flowers, and drop me a flower. 
Drop me a flower. 

Vine, vine and eglantine, 
Cannot a flower, a flower, be mine.' 
Ro.se, rose and clematis, 
Dro]) me a flower, a flower, to kiss, 
Kiss, kiss — And out of her bower 
All of flowers, a flower, a flower, 
Dropt, a flower. 



GONE ! 

Gone ! 

Gone till the end of the year. 

Gone, and the light gone with her and left 

me in shadow here ' 
Gone — flitted away. 
Taken the stars from the night and the sun 

from the day ! 
Gone, and a cloud in my heart, and a storm 

in the air ! 
Flown to the east or the west, flitted I know 

not where ! 
Down in the south is a flash and a groan : 

she is there ! she is there ! 



THE WIN DOW. 



WINTER. 

The frost is here, 

And fuel is dear, 

And woods are sear, 

And fires burn clear, 

And frost is here 

And has bitten the heel of the going year. 

Bite, frost, bite ! 

You roll up away from the light 

The blue woodlouse, and the plump dor- 
mouse, 

And the bees are slill'd, and the flies are 
kiU'd, 

And you bite far into the heart of the house, 

But not into mine. 

Bite, frost, bite ! 

The woods are all the searer, 

The fuel is all the dearer. 

The fires are all the clearer. 

My spring is all the nearer. 

You have"bilten into the heart of the earth, 

But not into mine. 



SPRING. 

Birds' love and birds' song 

Flying here and there, 
Birds' song and birds' love, 

And you with gold for hair 
Birds' song and birds' love. 

Passing with t!ie weather, 
Men's song and men's love. 

To love once and for ever. 

Men's love and birds' love. 

And women's love and men's ! 
And you my wren with a crown of gold. 

You my Queen of the wrens ! 
You the Queen of the wrens — 

We'll be birds of a feather, 
1 '11 be King of the Queen of the wrens, 

And all in a nest together. 



THE LETTER. 

Where is another sweet as my sweet, 
Fine of the fine, and shy of the shy? 

Fine little hands, fine little feet — 
Dewy bhie eye. 

Shall I write to her? shall I go? 
Ask her to marry me by and by? 

Somebody said that she 'd say no ; 
Somebody knows that she '11 say ay ! 

Ay or no, if ask'd to her face.' 
Ay or no, from shy of the shy ? 



Go, little letter, apace, apace, 

Fly! 
Fly to the light in the valley below — 

Tell my wish to her dewy blue eye : 
Somebody said that she 'd say no ; 

Somebody knows that she '11 say ay I 



NO ANSWER. 

The mist and the rain, the mist and the rain ! 

Is it ay or no ? is it ay or no ? 
And never a glimpse of her window-pane 1 

And I may die but the grass will grow. 
And tlie grass will grow when I am gone. 
And the wet west wind and the world will go 



Ay is the song of the wedded spheres, 
No is trouble and cloud and storm. 

Ay is life for a hundred years, 

No will push me down to the worm. 

And when I am there and dead and gone. 

The wet west wind and the world will go on. 

The wind and the wet, the wind and the wet ! 

Wet west wind, how you blow, you blow ! 
And never a line from my lady yet ! 

Is it ay or no ? is it ay or no? 
Blow then, blow, and when I am gone. 
The wet west wind and the world may go on. 



NO ANSWER. 

Winds are loud and you are dumb: 
Take my love, for love will come. 

Love will come but once a life. 
Winds are loud and winds will pass j 
Spring is here with leal and grass : 

Take my love and be my wife. 
After-loves of maids and men 
Are but dainties drest again : 
Love me now, you '11 love me then : 

Love can love but once a life. 



THE ANSWER. 

Two little hands that meet, 
Claspt on her seal, my sweet ! 
Must I take yoii»and break you, 
Two little hands that meet? 
1 must take you, and break you. 
And loving hands must part — 
Take, take — break, break — 
Break — you may break my heart. 
Faint heart never won — 
Break, break, and all 's done. 



304 



THE WINDOIV. 



AY! 

"i; merry, all birds, to-day, 

I'.e merry on earth as you never were 
merry before, 
Be merry in heaven, O larks, and far away. 
And merry for ever and ever, and one day 
more. 

Why? 
For it 's easy to find a rhyme. 

Look, look, how he flits, 

i'he fire-crown'd king of the wrens, from 
out of the pine ! 
Look how they tumble the blossom, the mad 
liule tits ! 
" Cuckoo ! Cuck-oo ! " was ever a May 
io tine ? 

Why? 
For it 's easy to find a rhyme. 

O merry the linnet and dove. 

And swallow and sparrow and throstle, and 
have your desire ! 
O merry my heart, you have gotten the wings 
of love, 
And Hit like the king of the wrens wilh a 
crown of fire. 

Why? 
For it 's ay ay ay, ay ay. 



X. 



WHEN? 



Sun comes, moon comes. 

Time slips away. 
Sun sets, moon sets. 

Love, fix a day. 



" A year hence, a year hence." 
" We shail both be gray." 

"A month hence, a month hence.' 
" Far, far av\ay." 

" A week hence, a week hence." 

"Ah, the long delay." 
" Wait a little, wait a liitle, 

" You shall fix a day." 

"To-morrow, love, to morrow, 
And that 's an age away." 

Blaze upon her window, sun, 
And honor all the day. 



MARRIAGE MORNING. 

Light, so low upon earth. 

You send a flash to the sun 
Here is the golden close of love, 

All my wooing is done. 
O the woods and the meadows, 

Woods where we hid from the wet, 
Stiles where we stay'd to be kind, 

Meadows in which we met ! 
Light, so low in the vale. 

You Hash and lighten afar : 
For this is the golden morning of love, 

And you are his morning star. 
Flash, I am coming, I come. 

By meadow and stile and wood : 
O lighten into my eyes and my heart, 

Ihto my heart and my blood ! 
Heart, are you great enough 

For a love that never tires? 
O heart, are you great enough for love? 

1 have heard of thorns and briers. 
Over the thorns and briers, 

Over the meadows and stiles, 
Over the world to the end of it 

Flash for a million milts. 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



30s 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



' The last tall son of Lot and Rellicent, 
And tallest, Garetli, in a showerful spring 
Stared at the spate. A slender-shafted 

Pine 
Lost footing, fell, and so was whirl'd away. 
" How he went down," said Gareth, "as a 

false knight 
Or evil king before my lance if lance 
Were mine to use — O senseless cataract, 
Bearing all down in thy precipitancy — 
And yet thou art but swollen with cold 

snows. 
And mine is living blood : thou dost His will, 
The Maker's, and not knowest, and I that 

know, 
Have strength and wit, in my good mother's 

hall 
Linger with vacillating obedience, 
Prison'd, and kept and coax'd and whistled 

to — 
Since the good mother holds me still a 

child — 
Good mother is bad mother unto me ! 
A worse were better; yet no worse would L 
Heaven yield her for it, but in me put force 
To weary her ears with oue contiuuous 

prayer, 
Until she let me fly discaged to sweep 
In ever-highering eagle-circles up 
To the great Sun of Glory, and thence 

swoop 
Down upon all things base, and dash them 

dead, 
A knight of Arthur, working out his will, 
To cleanse the world. Vv'hy, Gawain, when 

he came 
With Modred hither in the summertime, 
Ask'd me to tilt with him, the proven 

knight. 
Modred for want of worthier was the judge. 
I'hen I so shook hmi in the saddle, he said, 
' Thou hast half prevail'd against me,' said 

so — he — 
Tho' Modred biting his thin lips was mute, 
For he is alway sullen : what care 1 ? " 

And Gareth went, and hovering round 
her ch.iir 
Ask'd, " Mother, tho' ye coimt me still the 

child. 
Sweet mother, do ye love the child?" She 
laugh'd, 
; "Thou art but a wild-goose to question it." 
a "Then, mother, an ye love the child," he 
" said, 

" Being a goose and rather tame than wild. 
Hear the child's story." "Yea, my well- 
beloved, 
t An 't were but of the goose and golden 
eggs" 



■ { ■'■ ' 



And Gareth answer'd her with kindling 

eyes, 
" Nay, nay, good mother, but this egg of 

mine 
Was finer gold than any goose can lay ; 
For this an Eagle, a royal Eagle, laid 
Almost beyond eye-reach, on such a palm 
As glitters gilded in thy Book of Hours. 
And there was ever haunting round the 

palm Ij 

A lusty youth, but poor, who often saw 
The splendor sparkling from aloft, and 

thought 
'An I could climb and lay my hand upon 

it. 
Then were I wealthier than a leash of 

kings.' 
But ever when he reach'd a hand to climb. 
One, that had loved him from his childhood, 

caught 
And stay'd him, 'Climb not lest thou break 

thy neck, 
I charge thee by my.love,' and so the boy, ; 
Sweet mother, neither clomb, nor brake his ■ 

neck, ... , il 

But brake his very heart in pining for it, \ 

And past away." 

To whom the mother said, 
" True love, sweet son, had risk'd himself 

and climb'd. 
And h.inded down the golden treasure to 

him." 

And Gareth answer'd her with kindling 

eyes, 
"Gold? said I gold? — ay then, why he, or 

she. 
Or whosoe'er it was, or half the world 
Had ventured — had the thing I spake of 

been 
Mere gold — but this was all of that true 

steel, 
Whereof they forged the brand Excalibur, 
And lightiiingsj^ilay'd about it in the storm, 
And all the little fowl were flurried at it. 
And there were cries and clashiugs in the 

nest. 
That sent him from his senses : let me go.' 

Then Bellicent bemoan'd herself and said, 
" Hast thou no pity upon my loneliness? 
Lo, where thy father Lot beside the hearth 
Lies like a log, and all but smoulder'd 

out ! 
For ever since when traitor to the King 
He fought against him in the Daron.s' war, 
And Arthur gave him back his territory. 
His age hath slowly droopt, and now lies 

there 



3o6 



GARETU AND LYNETTE. 



A yet-wr.rm corpse, and yot unburiable, 
No more ; nor sees, nor hears, nor speaks, 

nor knows. 
And both thy brethren are in Arthur's hall. 
Albeit neither loved with that full love 
1 feel for thee, nor worthy such a love : 
Stay therefore thou ; red berries charm the 

bird. 
And thee, mine innocent, the jousts, the 

wars, 
Who never knewest finger-ache, nor pang 
Of wrench'd or broken limb — an often 

chance 
In those brain-stunning shocks, and tourney- 
falls, 
Frights to my heart; but stay: follow the 

deer 
By these tall firs and our fast-falling burns ; 
So make thy manhood miglitier day by day ; 
Sweet is the chase : and I will seek thee 

out 
Some comfortable bride and fair, to grace 
'i'hy climbing life, and cherish my prone 

year, 
Till falhng into Lot's forgetfulness 
1 know not thee, myself, nor anything. 
Stay, my best son ! ye aie yet more boy than 

man." 

Then Gareth, "An ye hold mo yet for 
child, 

Hear yet once more the story of the child. 

For, mother, there was once a King, like 
ours ; 

The prince his heir, when tall and marriage- 
able, 

Ask'd for a bride ; and thereupon the King 

Set two before him. One was lair, strong, 
arni'd — 

PmI to be won by force — and many men 
/esired her; one, good lack, ik> man de- 
sired. 

And these were the conditions of the King : 

That save he won the fust by force, he 
needs 

Must wed that other, v.hom no man desired, 

A red-faced bride who knew her.-ielf so vile. 

That evermore she long'd to liide herself. 

Nor fronted man or woman, eye to eye — 

Yea — some she cleaved to, but they died of 
her. 

And one — they call'd her Fame; and one, 
O Mother, 

How can ye keep me tether'd to you — 
.Shame ! 

Man am I gnnvn, a man's wnvk must I do. 

Follow the deer ? follow llie Christ, the 
King, 

Live pure, speak true, right wrong, follow 
the King — 

Else, wherefore born?" 

To whom the mother said, 
"Sweet son, for there be many who deem 

him not, 
Or will not deem him, wholly proven 

King — 



Albeit in mine own heart I knew him 

King, 
When I was frequent with him in my youth, 
And heard him Kingly speak, and doubted 

him 
No more than he, himself; but felt him 

mine, 
Of closest kin to me: yet — wilt thou leave 
Thine easeful biding here, and risk thinel 

all. 
Life, limbs, for one that is not proven 

King? 
Stay, till the cloud that settles round his 

birth 
Hath lifted but a little. Stay, sweet son." 

And Gareth answer'd quickly, " Not an 

hour. 
So that ye yield me — I will walk thro' fire, 
Mother, to gain it — your full leave to-go. 
Not proven, who swept the dust of ruin'd 

Rome 
From off the threshold of the realm, and 

crush'd 
The Idolaters, and made the people free? 
Who should be King save him who makes 

us free ? " 

So when the Queen, who long had sought 

in vain 
To break him from the intent to which h^ 

grew. 
Found her son's will unwaveringly one, 
She answer'd cral'tily, " Will ye walk thro' 

fire? 
Who walks thro' fire will hardly heed the 

[inioke. 
Ay, go then, an ye must : only one proof, 
Before thou ask the King to make thee 

knight. 
Of thine obedience and thy love to me, 
Thy mother, — I demand." 

And Gareth cried, 
" A hard one, or a himdrcd, so I go. 
Nay — quick ! the proof to prove me to the 
quick ! " 

But slowly spake the mother, looking at 

him, 
" Prince, thou shall go dis'.;uised to Arthur's 

hall. 
And liire thyself to serve for meats and 

drinks 
Among the scullions and the kitchen-knaves, 
And those that hand the dish across the 

bnr. 
Nor shah thou tell thy name to any one. 
And thou shall serve a twelvemonth and a 

day." 

P"or so the Queen believed that when hef 
son 
I'eheld his only way to glory lead 
Low down thro' villain kitciien-vassalage. 
Her own true Gareth was too ])rincely-proud 
To pass thereby ; so should he rest with her. 
Closed in her castle from the sound of arms 



GARETH AND LVNETTE. 



307 



Silent awhile was Gnretli, then replied, 
" Tlie thrall in person may be free in soul, 
And I shall see the jousts- Thy son am I, 
And since thou art my mother, must obey. 
I therefore yield me Ireely to thy will ; 
For hence will I, disguised, and hire my- 
self 
To serve with scullions and with kitchen- 
knaves ; 
Nor tell my name to any — no, not the 
King " 

Gareth awhile linger'd. The mother's eye 
Full of the wistful fear that he would go. 
And turning toward him wheresoe'er he 

turn'd, 
Perplext his outward purpose, till an hour, 
Wh 1 waRen'd by the wind which with full 

voice 
Swept bellowing thro' the darkness on to 

dawn, 
He rose, and out of slumber calling two 
That still had tended on him from his birth. 
Before the wakeful mother heard him, went. 

The three were clad like tillers of the soil. 
Southward they set their faces. The birds 

made 
Melody on branch, and melody in mid air. 
The damp hill-slopes were quicken'd into 

green. 
And the live green had kindled into flowers, 
For it was past the time of Easterday. 

So, when their feet were planted on the 

plain 
That broaden'd toward the base of Camelor, 
Far off they saw the silver-misty mum 
Rolling her smoke about the Koyal mount, 
Thai rose betvi-eeu the forest and the field. 
At times the summit of the high city flash'd ; 
At times the spires and turrets half-way 

down 
Prick'd thro' the mist ; at times the great 

gate shone 
Only, that open'd on the field below : 
Anon, the whole fair city had disappear'd. 

Then those who went with Gareth were 

amazed, 
One crying, " Let us go no farther, lord. 
Here is a city of Ei. chanters, bui.t 
Ky fairy Kmgs." 'Ihe second echn'd him, 
"Lord, we have heard from our wise men at 

luime 
To Northward, that this King is not the 

Kh^L', 

But only change!ir;g out of Fairyland, 
Who drave the hea;hen hence by sorcery 
And Merlin'spl.imour." 'I'hevi ihe first again, 
" Lord, there is no such city auyuliere. 
But all a vision." 

Gareth answer'd them 
With laughter, swearing he had glamour 

enow 
In his own blood, his princedom, youth and 

hopes, 



To plunge old Merlin in the Arabian sea ; 
So pushd them all unwilling toward the 

gate. 
And there was no gate like it under heaven ; 
For barelbot on the keystone, which was 

lined 
And rippled like an ever-fleeting wave, 
The Lady of the Lake stood : all her dress 
Wept from her sides as water flowing away ; 
But like the cross her great and goodly arms 
Streich'd under all the cornice and upheld: 
And drops of water fell from either hand ; 
And down from one a sword was hung, from 

one 
A censer, either worn with wind and storm ; 
And o'er her breast floated the sacred fish ; 
And in the space to left of her, and right. 
Were Arthur's wars in weird devices done. 
New things and old co-twisted, as if Time 
Were nothing, so invelerately, that men 
Were giddy gazing there ; and over all 
High on the top were those three Queens, 

the friends 
Of Arthur, who should help him at his need. 

Then those with Gareth for so long a 

space 
.Stared at the figures, that at last it seem'd 
The dragon-boughts and elvish emblemings 
Began to move, seethe, twine and curl: 

they call'd 
To Gareth, " Lord, the gateway is alive." 

And Gareth likewise on them fixt his 

eyes 
So long, that ev'n to liim lliey seem'd to 

move. 
Out of the city a blast of music peal'd. 
Back from the gate started the three, to 

whom 
From out thereunder came an aijcient man. 
Long-bearded, saying, "'Who be ye, my 

sons? " 

Then Gareth, " We be tillers of the soil. 
Who leaving sliare in furrow come to see 
The glories of our King : but ti.ese, my men, 
(Your city moved so weirdly in the mist,) 
Doubt if the King be King at all. or come 
From Fairyland ; and whether this be built 
By magic, and by fairy Kings and Queens; 
Or whether there be any city at all. 
Or all a vision : and this music row 
Hath scared them both, but tell thou these 
the truth." 

Then that old Seer made answer playing- 

on him 
And saying, " Son, I have seen the good 

ship sail 
Keel upward and mast downward in the 

heavens. 
And solid turrets topsy-turvy in air: 
And here is truth ; but an it please thee not, 
Take thou the truth as thou bast told it me. 
For truly, as thou sayest, a Fairy King 
And Fairy Queens have built the city, son ; 
They came from out a sacred mountain-clcll 



3o8 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



\ Toward the sunrise, each with harp in hand, 
And built it to the music of their harps. 
And as thou sayest, it is enclianted, son, 
For there is nothing in it as it seems 
Saving the King ; tho' some there be that 

^hold 
Tlie King a shadow, and the city real : 
Yet take thou heed of him, for, so thou pass 
Beneath this archway, then wilt thou become 
A thrall to his enchantments, for the King 
Will bind thee by such vows, as is a shame 
A man should not be bound by, yet the 

which 
No man can keep ; but, so thou dread to 

swear. 
Pass not beneath this gateway, but abide 
Without, among the cattle of the field. 
For, an ye heard a music, like enow 
They are building still, seeing the city is 

built 
To music, therefore never built at all, 

(And therefore built forever. 
Gareth spake 
Anger'd, " Old Master, reverence thine own 

beard 
That looks as vvhiu ." utter truth, and 

seems 
Wellnigh as long as thou are stalured tall ! 
Why mockest thou the stranger that hath 
E been 

To thee fair-spoken ?" 

P.iit the Seer replied, 
"Know ye not then the Riddling of the 

13ards ? 
'Confusion, and illusion, and relation, 
Khision, and occasion, and evasion ' ? 
I mock thee not but as thou nmckest me, 
And all that see thee, for thou art not who 
Thou seemest, but 1 know thee who thou art. 
And now tliou goest up to mock the King, 
Who cannot brook the shadow of any lie." 

Unmockingly the mocker ending here 
Turn d to the right, and past along the 

plain ; 
Whom Gareth looking after said, "My 

men. 
Our one white lie sits like a little ghost 
Hereon the threshold of our enterprise. 
J.et love be blamed lur it, nm she, nor I : 
Well, we will make amends." 

With all good cheer 
He spake and laugh'd, then enler'd with 

his twain 
Camelot, a city of shadowy palaces 
And stately, rich in emblem and the work 
Of ancient Kings who did their days in 

stone ; 
Which Merlin's hand, the Mage at Arthur's 

court. 
Knowing all arts, h.id touch'd, and every- 
where 
At Arthur's ordinance, tipt with lessening 
I)eak 



And pinnacle, and had made it spire to 

heaven. 
And ever and anon a knight would pass 
Outward, or inward to the hall : his arms 
Clash'd ; and the sound was good to Gareth's 

ear. 
And out of bower and casement shyly glanced 
Eyes of pure women, wholesome stars of 

love ; 
And all about a healthful people stept 
As in the presence of a gracious king. 

Then into hall Gareth ascending heard 
A voije, the voice of Arthur, and beheld 
Far over heads in that long-vaulted hall 
The splendor of the presence of the King 
Throned, and delivering doom — and look'd 

no more — 
But felt his young heart hammering in his 

ears. 
And thought, " For this half-shadow of a lie 
The truthful King will doom me when I 

speak." 
Yet pressing on. tho' all in fear to find 
Sir Gawain or Sir Modred, saw nor one 
Nor other, but in all the listening eyes 
Of those tall knights, that ranged about the 

throne. 
Clear honor shining like the dewy star 
Of dawn, and faith in their great King, with 

pure 
Affection, and the light of victory, 
And glory gain'd, and evermore to gain. 

Then came a widow crying to the King, 
"A boon. Sir King! Thy father, Uther, 

reft 
From my dead lord a field with violence: 
For howsoe'er at first he profter'd gold. 
Yet, for the field was pleasant in our eyes, 
We yielded not ; and then he reft us of" it 
Perforce, and left us neither gold nor field." 

.Said Arthur, " Wheiher would ye? gold or 
field?" 
To whom the woman wee|iing, " Nav, my 

lord. 
The field was pleasant in my husband's eye." 

And Arthur, " Have thy pleasant field 

again, 
.And thrice the gold for Uther's use thereof, 
According to the years. No boon is here, 
but justice, so thy say be proven true. 
Accursed, who from the wrongs his father 

did 
Would shape himself a right ! " 

And while she past, 
Came yet another widow crying to him. 
"A boon. Sir King! Thine enemy. King, 

am I. 
With thine own hand thou slewest my dear 

lord, 
A knight of Utlier in the Barons' war. 
When Lot and many anoliier rose and 

fought 
Against thee, saying thou wert basely born. 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



309 



I held with these, and loathe to ask thee 

aught. 
Yet lo ! my husband's brother had my son 
ThraU'd in his castle, and hath starved him 

dead ; 
And standeth seized of that inheritance 
Which thou that slewest the sire hast left the 

sou. 
So tho' I scarce can ask it thee for hate, 
Grant me some knight to do the battle for 

me. 
Kill the foul thief, and wreak me for my son." 

Then strode a good knight forward, crying 

to him, 
" A boon, Sir King ! I am her kinsman, I. 
Give me to right her wrong, and slay the 

man." 

Then came Sir Kay, the seneschal, and 

cried, 
"A boon. Sir King! ev'n that thou grant 

her none. 
This railer, that hath mock'd thee in full 

hall — 
None ; or the wholesome boon of gyve and 

gag" 

But Arthur, "We sit. King, to help the 

wrong'd 
Thro' all our realm. The woman loves her 

lord. 
Peace to thee, woman, with thy loves and 

hates ! 
The kings of old had doom'd thee to the 

flames, 
Aurelius Emrys would have scourged thee 

dead. 
And Uther slit thy tongue : but get thee 

hence — 
I.est that rough humor of the kings of old 
Return upon me ! Thou that art her kin. 
Go likewise ; lay him low and slay liim 

not, 
But bring him here, that I may judge the 

rif;ht, 
According to the justice of the King : 
Then, be he guilty, by that deathless King 
Who lived and died for men, the man shall 

die." 

Then came in hall the messentjer of Mark, 
A name of evil savor in the land, * 
'J'he Cornish king. In either liand lie bore 
What dazzled all, and shone far-off as shines 
A field of charlock in the sudden sun 
Between two showers, a clotli of palest gold. 
Which down he laid before the throne, and 

knek. 
Delivering, that his Lord, the vassal king, 
Was ev'n upon his way to Camelot ; 
For having heard tliat Arthur of liis grace 
Had made his goodly cousin, Tristram, 

knight. 
And, for himself was of the greater state. 
Being a king, he trusted his liege-lord 
Would yield him this large honor all the 

more; 



So pray'd him well to accept this cloth of 

gold. 
In token of true heart and fealty. 

Then Arthur cried to rend the cloth, to 

rend 
In pieces, and so cast it on the hearth. 
An oak-tree smouldered there. " The goodly 

knight ! 
What ! shall the shield of Mark stand among 

these ? " 
For, midway down tlie side of that long hall 
A stately pile, — whereof along the front, 
Some blazon'd, some but carven, and some 

blank. 
There ran a treble rango of stony shields, — 
Rose, and high-arching overbrov d the 

hearth. 
And under every shield a knight was named : 
P'or this was Arthur's custom in his hall ; 
When some good knight had done one noble 

deed, 
His arms were carven only ; but if twain 
His arms were blazon'd also ; but if none 
The shield was blank and bare without a 

sign 
Saving the name beneath ; and Gareth saw 
The shield of Gawain blazon'd rich and 

bright, 
And Modred's blank as death ; and Arthur 

cried 
To rend the cloth and cast it on the hearth. 

" More like are we to reave him of his 

crown 
Than make liim knight because men call I 

him king. 
The kings we found, ye know we stay'd their 

hands 
From war among themselves, but left them \ 

kings ; 
Of whom were any bounteous, merciful, 
Truth-speaking, brave, good livers, them we 

enroU'd 
Among us, and they sit within our hall. 
But Mark hath tarnish'd the great name of 

king. 
As Mark would sully the low state of churl : 
And, seeing he hath sent us cloth of gold. 
Return, and meet, and liold him from our 

eyes, 
Lest we should lap him up in cloth of lead. 
Silenced forever — craven — a man of plots, 
Craft, poisonous counsels, wayside ambush- 

ings — • 
No fault of thine : let Kay, the seneschal. 
Look to thy wants, and send thee .^.atisfied — 
Accursed, who strikes nor lets the hand be 

seen ! " 

And many another suppliant crying came 
With noise of ravage wrought by beast and 

man, 
And evermore a knight would ride away. 

Last Gareth leaning both hands heavilv 
Down on the shoulders of the twain, his 
men, 



310 



GARETH AND LYNETTE, 



Approach 'd between them toward the King, 
and ask'd, 

" A boon, Sir King (his voice was all 
ashamed), 

For see ye not how weak and hungerwom 

I seem — leaning on these ? grant me to 
serve 

For meat and drink among thy kitchen- 
knaves 

A twelvemonth and a day, nor seek my 
name. 

Hereafter I will fight." 

To him the King, 
" A goodly youth and worth a goodlier 

boon I 
But an thou wilt no goodlier, then must 

Kay, 
The master of the meats and drinks be 

thine." 

He rose and past ; then Kay, a man of 
mien 
Wan-sallow as the plant that feels itself 
Root-bitten by white lichen, 

" Lo ye now ! 
This fellow hath broken from some Abbey, 

where, 
God wot, he had not beef and brewis enow, 
However that might chance I but an he 

work. 
Like any pigeon will I cram his crop, 
And sleeker shall he shine than any hog." 

Then Lancelot standing near, " Sir Senes- 
chal, 

Sleuth-hound thou knowest, and gray, and 
all tlie hounds ; 

A horse thou knowest, a man thou dost not 
know : 

Broad brows and fair, a fluent hair and fine, 

High ro^e, a nostril large and fine, and 
hai>ds 

Large, fair and fine ! — Some young lad's 
myilery — 

But, or from sheepcot or king's hall, the 
boy 

Is noble natured. Treat him with all grace, 

Lesi he should come to shame thy judging 

of lliiU." 

Then Kay, " What murmurest thou of 
mysterv ? 

Think ye this fellow will poison the King's 
dish ? 

Naj', for he spake too fool-like : mystery ! 

Tut, an the lad were noble, he had ask'd 

For horse and armor : fair and fine, for- 
sooth ! 

Sir Fine-face, Sir Fair-hands? but see thou 
to it 

That thine own fineness, Lancelot, some fine 
day 

Undo thee not — and leave my man to me." 

So Gareth all for glory underwent 
The sooty yoke of kitchen vassalage ; 



Ate with young lads his portion by the door, 
And couch'd at night with grimy kitchen- 
knaves. 
And Lancelot ever spake him pleasantly, 
But Kay the seneschal who loved him not 
Would hustle and harry him, and labor him 
Beyond his comrade of the hearth, and set 
To turn the broach, draw water, or hew 

wood. 
Or grosser tasks ; and Gareth bow'd himself 
With all obedience to the King, and wrought 
All kind of service with a noble ease 
That graced the lowliest act in doing it. 
And when the thralls had talk among them- 
selves, 
And one would praise the love that linkt the 

King 
And Lancelot — how the King had saved his 

life 
In battle twice, and Lancelot once the 

King's- 
For Lancelot was the first in Tournament, 
But Arthur mightiest on the battle-field — 
Gareth was glad. Or if some other told, 
How once the wandering forester at dawn, 
Far over the blue tarns and hazy seas. 
On Caer-Eryri's highest found the King, 
A naked babe, of whom the Prophet spake, 
" He passes to the Isle Avilion, 
He passes and is heal'd and cannot die " — 
Gareth was glad. But if their talk were 

foul. 
Then would he whistle rapid as any lark, 
Or carol some old roundelay, and so loud 
That first they mock'd, but, after, reverenced 

him. 
Or Gareth telling some prodigious tale 
Of knights, who sliced a red life-bubbling 

way 
Thro' twenty folds of twisted dragon, held 
All in a gap-mouth'd circle his good mates 
Lying or .sitting round h m, idle hands, 
Charm'd ; lill Sir Kay, the seneschal, would 

come 
Blustering ujion them, like a sudden wind 
Among dead leaves, and drive them all 

apart. 
Or when the thralls had sport among them- 
selves, 
So there were any trial of mastery. 
He. by two yards in casting bar or stone 
Was counted best ; and if there chanced a 

joiiet, 
So that Sir Kay nodded him leave to go. 
Would hurry thither, and when he saw the 

knights 
Clash like the coming and retiring wave, 
And the spear spring, and good horse reel, 

the boy 
Was half beyond himself for ecstasy. 

So for a month he wrought among the 

thralls; 
But in the weeks that follow'd, the good 

Queen, 
Repentant of the word she made him swear. 
And saddening in her childless castle, sent, 
Between the increscent and decrescent mooii« 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



Arms for her son, and loosed him from his 
vow. 

This, Gareth bearing from a squire of Lot 
With whom he used to play at tourney once, 
When both were children, and in lonely 

haunts 
Would scratch a ragged oval on the sand, 
And each at either dash from either end — 
Shame never made girl redder than Gareth 

Joy- 
He laugh'd ; he sprang. " Out of the 

smoke, at once 
I leap from Satan's foot to Peter's knee — 
These news be mine, none other's — nay, the 

King's — 
Descend into the city " : whereon he sought 
The King alone, and found, and told him 

all. 

" I have stagger'd thy strong Gawain in a 

tilt 
For pastime ; yea, he said it : joust can I. 
Make me thy knight — in secret ! let my 

name 
Be hidd 'n, and give me the first quest, I 

spring 
Like flame from ashes." 

Here the King's calm eye 
Fell on, and check'd, and made liim flush, 

and bow 
Lowly, to kiss his hand, who answer'd him, 
" Son, the good mother let me know thee 

here, 
And sent her wish that I would yield thee 

thine. 
Make thee my kniglit ? my knights are 

sworn to vows 
Of utter hardihood, utter gentleness. 
And loving, utter faithfulness in Inve, 
And uttermost obedience to the King." 

Then Gareth, lightly springing from his 
knees, 
" My King, for hardihood I can promise 

thee. 
For uttermost obedience make demand 
Of wliom ye gave me to, the Seneschal, 
No mellow master of the meats and drinks ! 
And as for love, God wot, I love not yet. 
But love I shall, God willing." 

And the King — 
'• Make thee my knight in secret ? yea, but 

he, 
Our noblest brother, and our truest man. 
And one with me in all, he needs must 

know." 

" Let Lancelot know, my King, let Lance- 
lot know. 
Thy noblest and thy truest ! " 

And the King — 
,' But wherefore would ye men should won- 
der at you ? 
Nay, rather for the sake of me, their King, 



And the deed's sake my knighthood do the 

deed. 
Than to be noised of." 

Merrily Gareth ask'd, 
" Have I not earn'd my cake in baking of 

it? 
Let be my name until I make my name ! 
My deeds will speak : it is but for a day." 
So with a kindly hand on Gareth'sarm 
Smiled the great King, and half-uiiwillingly 
Loving his lusty youthhood yielded to him. 
Tlien, after summoning Lancelot privily, 
" I have given him the first quest : he is not 

proven. 
Look therefore when he calls for tliis in 

hall. 
Thou get to horse and follow him far away. 
Cover the lions on thy shield, and see 
Far'as thou mayest, he be nor ta'en nor 

slain." 

Then that same day there past into the 

hall 
A damsel of high lineage, and a brow 
May-blossom, andaclieek of apple-blossom. 
Hawk-eyes; and lightly was her slender 

nose 
Tip-tilted like the petal of a flower ; 
She into hall past with her page and cried, 

" O King, for thou hast driven the foe with- 
out, 
See to the foe within ! bridge, ford, beset 
By bandits, every one that owns a tower 
The Lord for half a league. Why sit ye 

there ? 
Rest would I not, Sir King, an I were 

king. 
Till ev'n the lonest hold were all as free 
From cursed bloodshed, as thine altar-cloth 
From that blest blood it is a sin to spill." 

" Comfort thyself," said Arthur, " I nor 

mine 
Rest : so my knighthood keep the vows they 

swore. 
The wastest moorland of our realm shall be 
Safe, damsel, as the centre of this hall. 
What is thy name ? thy need ? 

"My name?" she said — 
" Lynette my name ; noble ; my need, a 

knight 
To combat for my sister, Lyonors, 
A lady of high lineage, of great lands. 
And comely, _i|'ea, and comelier than myself. 
-She lives in Castle Perilous : a river 
Runs in three loops about lier living-place ; 
And o'er it are three passings, and three 

knights 
Defend the passings, brethren, and a fourth, 
And of that four the mightiest, holds her 

stay'd 
In her own castle and so besieges her 
To break her will, and make her wed with 

him : 



3" 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



And but delays his purport till thou send 
To do tlie battle with him, tliy chief man 
Sir Lancelot whom he trusts to overthrow, 
Then wed, with glory ; but she will not wed 
Save whom she loveth, or a holy life. 
Now therefore have I come for Lancelot." 

Then Arthur mindful of Sir Gareth ask'd, 
"Damsel, ye know this Order lives to crush 
All wrongers of the Realm. But say, these 

four. 
Who be they ? What the fashion of the 

men ? " 

" They be of foolish fashion, O Sir King, 
The fashion of that old knight-errantry 
Who ride abroad and do but what they will ; 
Courteous or bestial from the moment. 
Such as have nor law nor king ; and three of 

these 
Proud in their fantasy call themselves the 

Day, 
Morning-Star, and Noon-Sun, and Evening- 
Star, 
Being strong fools ; and never a whit more 

wise 
The fourth, who alway rideth arm'd in black, 
A huge man-beast of boundless savagery. 
He names himself the Night and oltener 

Death, 
And wears a Iielmet mounted with a skull 
And bears a skeleton figured on liis arms, 
'I'o show that who may slay or scape the 

three 
Slain by himself shall enter endless night. 
And all tliese four be fools, but mighty men, 
And therefore am I come for Lancelot." 

Hereat Sir Gareth call'd from where he 
rose, 
A liead with kindling eyes above the throng, 
" A boon, Sir King — this quest I" then — 

for he mark'd 
Kay near him groaning like a wounded bull — 
" Yea, King, thou knowest thy kitchen- 
knave am L 
And mighty thro' thy meats and drinks am I, 
And I can topple over a hundred such. 
Thy promise, King," and Arthur glancing at 

him. 
Brought down a momentary brow- " Rough, 

sudden. 
And pardonable, worthy to be knight — 
Go therefore," and all hearers were amazed. 

But on the damsel's forehead shame, pride, 
wrath. 
Slew the May-white : she lifted either arm, 
" Fie on thee, King 1 I ask'd for thy chief 

knight, 
And tliou hast given me but a kitchen- 
knave." 
Then ere a man in hall could stay her, turn'd. 
Fled down the lane of access to the King, 
fook horse, descended the slope street, and 

past 
The weird white gate, and paused without, 
beside 



The field of tourney, murmuring " kitchen- 
knave." 

Now two great entries open'd from the 

hall. 
At one end one, that gave upon a range 
Of level pavement where the King would 

pace 
At sunrise, gazing over plain and wood. 
And down from this a lordly stairway sloped 
Till lost in blowing trees and tops of towers. 
And out by this main doorway past the King. 
But one was counter to the hearth, and rose 
High that the highest-crested helm could ride 
Therethro' nor graze : and by this entry lied 
The damsel in her wrath, and on to this 
Sir Gareth strode, and saw without the door 
King Arthur's gift, the worth of half a town, 
A warhorse of the best, and near it stood 
The two that out of north had follow'd him. 
This bare a maiden shield, a casque; that held 
I'he liorse, the spear ; whereat Sir Gareth 

loosed 
A cloak that dropt from collar-bone to heel, 
A cloth of roughest web, and cast it down, 
And I'rom it like a fuel-smother'd fire. 
That lookt half-dead, brake bright, and 

flash'd as those 
Dull-coated things, that making slide apart 
Their dusk wing-cases, all beneath there 

burns 
A jewel'd harness, ere they jjass and fly. 
So Gareth ere he parted flashed in arms. 
Then while he donn'd the helm, and took 

the shield 
And mounted horse and graspt a spear, of I 

grain ' 

Storm-strengthen'd on a windv site, and tipt 
With trenchant steel, around him slowly prest 
'i'he people, and from out of kitchen came 
The tliralls in throng, and seeing who had 

' work'd ;' 

Lustier than any, and whom they could but 

love. 
Mounted in arms, threw up their caps and 

cried, 
" God bless the King, and all his fellow- 
ship ! " 
And on thro' lanes of shouting Gareth rode 
Down the slope street, and past without the 

gate. 

So Gareth past with joy ; but as the cur_ 
Pluckt from the cur he fights with, ere his 

cause 
Be cool'd by fighting, follows, being named, 
His owner, but remembers all. and growls 
Remembering, so .Sir Kay beside the door • 
Mutter'd in scorn of Gareth whom he used 
To harry and hustle. 

" Bound u|>on a quest 
With liorse and arms ^ the King hath past 

his time — 
My scullion knave I Thralls to your work 

again. 
For an your fire be low ye kindle mine ! 
Will there be dawn in West and eve in East' 



jjjiiiu iiiiiiniiww 



111 1 'Jr V ii 




" Fie on tliee, King ! 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



Bec;one ! — my knave ! -belike and like enow 
Some old head-blow not heeded in his youth 
So bhook his wits they wander in his prime — 
Crazed ! How the villain lilted up his voice, 
Nor shamed to bawl himself a kitchen-knave. 
Tut : he was tame and meek enow with me, 
Til! peacock'd up with Lancelot's noticing. 
Well — I will after my loud knave, and learn 
Whether he know me for his master yet. 
Out of the smoke he came, and so my lance 
Hold, by God's grace, he shall into the 

mire — 
Thence, if the King awaken from his craze, 
Into the smoke again." 

But Lancelot said, 
" Kay, wherefore will ye go against the King, 
For that did never he whereon ye rail, 
But ever meekly served the King in thee? 
Abide : take counsel ; for this lad is great 
And lusty, and knowing both of lance and 

sword. ' ' 
"Tut, tell not me," said Kay, "ye are over- 
fine 
To mar stout knaves with foolish courtesies." 
Then mounted, on thro' silent faces rode 
Down the slope city, and out beyond the 
gate. 

But by the field of tourney lingering yet 
Muttered the damsel, " Wherefore did the 

King 
Scorn me ? for, were Sir Lancelot lackt, at 

least 
He might have yielded to me one of those 
Who tilt for lady's love and glory here. 
Rather than — O sweet heaven ! O fie upon 

him — 
His kitchen-knave." 

To whom Sir Gareth drew 
(And there were none but few goodlier than 

he) 
Shining in arms, " Damsel, the quest is mine. 
Lead, and I follow." She thereat, as one 
That smells a foul-flesh'd agaric in the holt. 
And deems it carrion of some woodland thing. 
Or shrew, or weasel, nipt her slender nose 
With petulant thumb and finger shrilling, 

" Hence ! 
Avoid, thou sniellest all of kitchen-grease. 
And look who comes behind," for there was 

Kay. 
" Knowest thou not me? thy master? I am 

Kay. 
We lack thee by the hearth." 

And Gareth to him, 
" Master no more ! too well I know thee, ay — 
The most ungentle knight in Arthur's hall," 
"Have at thee then," said Kay: they 

shock'd, and Kay 
Fell shoulder-slipt, and Gareth cried again, 
" Lead, and I follow," and fast away she fled. 

But nfi'.-r Slid and shingle ceased to fly 
Behind Ikt, and the heart of her good horse 



Was nigh to burst with violence of the beat, 
Perforce she stay'd, and overtaken spoke. 

" What doest thou, scullion, in ray fellow- 
ship? 
Deem'st thou that I accept thee aught the 

more 
Or love thee better, that by some device 
Full cowardly, or by mere unhappiness. 
Thou hast overthrown and slain thy master 

— thou ! — 
Dish-washer and broach-turner, loon! — to 

me 
Thou smellest all of kitchen as before." 

"Damsel," Sir Gareth answer'd gently, 
"say 
Whate'er ye will, but whatsoe'er ye say, 
I leave not till I finish this fair quest. 
Or die therefor." 

"Ay, wilt thou finish it? 
Sweet lord, how like a noble knight he talks ! 
The listening rogue hath caught the manner 

of it. 
But, knave, anon thou shalt be met with, 

knave. 
And then by such a one that thou for all 
The kitchen brewis that was ever supt 
Shalt not once dare to look him in the face." 

" I shall assay," said Gareth with a smile 
That madden'd her, and away she flash'd 

again 
Down the long avenues of a boundless wood, 
And Gareth following was again beknaved. 

"Sir Kitchen-knave, I have niiss'd the 

only way 
Where Arihur's men are set along the wood ; 
The wood is nigh as full of thieves as leaves : 
If both be slain, I am rid of thee; but yet. 
Sir Scullion, canst thou use that spit of thine? 
Fight, an thou canst : I have miss'd the 

only way." 

So till the dusk that followed evensong 
Rode on the two, reviler and reviled : 
Then after one long slope was mounted, saw. 
Bowl-shaped, thro' tops of many thousand 

pines 
A gloomy-gladed hollow slowly sink 
To westward — in the deeps whereof a mere, 
Round as the red eye of an Eagle-owl, 
Under the half-dead sunset glared ; and cries 
Ascended, and there brake a servingman 
Flying from out of the black wood, and crying, 
" They have bound my lord to cast him in 

the mere." 
Then Gareth, "Bound am I to right the 

wrong'd. 
But straitlier bound am I to bide with thee." 
And when the damsel spake contemptuously, 
" Lead and 1 follow," Gareth cried again, 
" Follow, I lead ! " so down among the pines 
He plunged, and there, black-shadow'd nigh 

the mere. 
And mid-thigh-deep in bulrushes and reed 



4 



314 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



Saw six tall men haling a seventh along, 
A stone about his neck to drown him in it. 
Three with good blows he quieted, but three 
Fled thro' the pines ; and Gareth loosed 

the stone 
From off his neck, then in the mere beside 
Tumbled it ; oilily bubbled up the mere. 
Last, Gareth loosed his bonds and on free 

feet 
Set him, a stalwart Baron, Arthur's friend. 

" Well that ye came, or else tliese c.titiff 

rogues 
Had wreak'd themselves on me ; good cause 

is theirs 
To hate me, for my wont hath ever been 
To catch my thief, and then like vermin here 
Drown him, and with a stone about his neck ; 
And under this wan water many of them 
Lie rotting, but at night let go the stone, 
And rise, and flickering in a grimly light 
Dance on the mere. Good now, ye have 

saved a life 
Worth somewhat as the cleanser of this 

wood. 
And fain would I reward thee worshipfully. 
What guerdon will ye ?" 

Gareth sharply spake, 
" None ! for the deed's sake have I done the 

deed. 
In uttermost obedience to the King. 
But will ye yield this damsel harborage ?" 

Whereat the Baron saying, " I well be- 
lieve 
Ye be of Arthur's Table," a light laugh 
Broke from Lynette, "Ay, truly of a truth. 
And in a sort, being Arthur's kitchen- 
knave ! — 
But deem not I accept thee aught the more. 
Scullion, for running sharply with thy spit 
Down on a rout of craven foresters. 
A thresher with his flail had scatter'd them. 
Nay — for thou smellest of the kitchen still. 
But an this lord will yield us harborage. 
Well." 

So she spake. A league beyond the wood. 
All in a full-fair manor and a rich. 
His towers where that day a feast had been 
Held in high hall, and many a viand left. 
And many a costly cate, received the three. 
And there they placed a peacock in his pride 
Before the damsel, and the Baron set 
Gareth beside her, but at once she rose. 

" Meseems, that here is much discourtesy. 
Setting this knave. Lord Baron, at my side. 
Hear me — this morn I stood in Arthur's 

hall. 
And pray'd the King would grant me Lance- 
lot 
To fight the brotherhood of Day and Night — 
The last a monster unsubduable 
Of any save of him for whom I call'd — 
Suddenly bawls this frontless kitchen-knave, 
* The quest is mine ; thy kitchen-knave am I, 



And mighty thro' thy meats and drinks 

am L' 
Then Arthur all at once gone mad replies, 
' Go tlierefore,' and so gives the quest to 

him — 
Him — here — a villain fitter to stick swine 
Than ride abroad redressing women's wrong, 
Or sit beside a noble gentlewoman." 

Then half-ashamed and part-amazed, the 
lord 
Now look'd at one and now at other, left 
The damsel by the peacock in his pride. 
And, seating Gareth at another board. 
Sat down beside him, ate and then began. 

" Friend, whether ye be kitchen-knave, or 
not. 
Or whether it be the maiden's fantasy. 
And whether she be mad, or else the King, 
Or both or neither, or thyself be mad, 
I ask not : but thou strikest a strong stroke. 
For strong thou art and goodly therewithal. 
And saver of my life ; and therefore now. 
Fur here be mighty men to joust with, weigh 
Whether thou wilt not witli thy damsel back 
To crave again Sir Lancelot of the King. 
Thy pardon ; I but speak for thine avail. 
The saver of my life." 

And Gareth said, 
" Full pardon, but I follow up the quest. 
Despite of Day and Night and Death and 
Hell." 

So when, next morn, the lord whose life he 
saved 

Had, some brief space, convey'd them on 
their way 

And left them with God-speed, Sir Gareth 
spake, 

" Lead and I follow." Haughtily she re- 
plied, 

" I fly no more : I allow thee for an hour. 
Lion and stoat have isled together, knave. 
In time of flood. Nay, futhermore, me- 

thinks 
Some ruih is mine for thee. Back wilt thou, 

fool > 
For hard by here is one will overthrow 
And slay thee : then will I to court again. 
And shame the King for only yielding me 
My champion from the ashes of his hearth." 

To whom Sir Gareth answer'd courteously, 
" Say thou thy say, and I will do my deed. 
Allow me for mine hour, and thou wilt find 
My fortunes all as fair as hers, who lay 
Among the ashes and wedded the King's 
son." 

Then to the shore of one of those long 

loops 
Wherethro' the serpent river coil'd, they 

came. 
Roughthicketed were the banks and steeD i 

the stream 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



3IS 



Full, narrow ; this a bridge of single arc 
Took at a leap ; and on tlie fi.nlier side 
Arose a silk pavilion, gay witli gold 
In streaks and rays, and all Lent-lily in hue, 
Save that the dome was purple, and above. 
Crimson, a slender banneret fluttering. 
And therebefore the lawless warrior paced 
Unarm'd, and calling, "Damsel, is this he. 
The champion ye have brought from 

Arthur's ha'U ? 
For whom we let thee pass." " Nay, nay," 

she said, 
"Sir Morning-Star. The King in utter 

scorn 
Of thee and thy much folly hath sent thee 

here 
His kitchen-knave : and look thou to thyself : 
See that he fall not on thee suddenly. 
And slay thee unarm'd : he is not knight but 

knave." 

Then at his call, " O daughters of the 

Dawn, 
A'.id servants of the Morning-Star, approach. 
Arm me," from out the silken curtain-folds 
Barefooted and bareheaded three fair girls 
In gilt and rosy raiment came : their feet 
In dewy grasses glisten'd ; and the hair 
All over glanced with dewdrop or with gem 
Like sparkles in the stone Avanturine. 
These arm'd him in blue arms, and gave a 

shield 
Blue also, and thereon the morning star. 
And Gareth silent gazed upon the knight, 
Who stood a moment, ere his horse was 

brought, 
Glorying ; and in the stream beneath him, 

shone, 
Immingled with Heaven's azure waveringly. 
The gay pavilion and the naked feet, 
His arms, the rosy raiment, and the star. 

Then she that watch'd him, "Wherefore 

stare ye so ? 

Thou shakest in thy fear : there yet is time : 

Flee down the valley before he get to horse. 

Who will cry shame? Thou art not knight 

but knave." 

Said Gareth, " Damsel, whether knave or 

knight, 
Far liever had I fight a score of times 
Than hear thee so missay me and revile. 
Fair words were best for him who fights foi 

thee ; 
But truly foul are better, for they send 
That strength of anger thro' mine arms, I 

know 
That I shall overthrow him." 

And he that bore 
The star, being mounted, cried from o'er the 

the bridge, 
"A kitchen-knave, and sent in scorn of me ! 
Such fight not I, but answer scorn with scorn. 
I For this were shame to do him further wrong 
Than set him on his feet, and take his horse 
And arms, and so return him to the King. 



Come, therefore, leave thy lady lightly, 

knave. 
Avoid : for it beseemeth not a knave 
To ride with such a lady." 

" Dog, thou liest. 
I spring from loftier lineage than thine 

own." 
He spake ; and all at fiery speed the two 
Shock'd on the central bridge, and either 

spear 
Bent but not brake, and either knight at once, 
Hurl'd as a stone from out of a catapult 
Beyond his horse's crupper and the bridge, 
Fell, as if dead ; but quickly rose and drew. 
And Gareth lash'd so fiercely with his brand 
He drave his enemy backward down the 

bridge. 
The damsel crying, "Well-stricken, kitchen- 
knave ! " 
Till Gareth's shield was cloven ; but one 

stroke 
Laid him that clove it grovelling on the 
ground. 

Then cried the fall'n, " Take not my life : 

I yield." 
.\nd Gareth, " So this damsel ask it of me 
Good — I accord it easily as a grace." 
She reddening, " Insolent scullion : I of 

thee? 
I bound to thee for any favor ask'd ! " 
" Then shall he die." And Gareth there 

unlaced 
His helmet as to slay him, but she shriek'd, 
" Be not so hardy, scullion, as to slay 
One nobler than thyself." " Damsel, thy 

charge 
Is an abounding pleasure to me. Knight, 
Thy life is thine at her command. Arise 
And quickly pass to Arthur's hall, and say 
His kitchen-knave hath sent thee. See 

thou crave 
His pardon for thy breaking of his laws. 
Myself, when I return, will plead for thee. 
Thy shield is mine — farewell ; and, damsel, 

thou 
Lead, and I follow." 

And fast away she fled. 
Then when he came upon her, spake, 

" Methought, 
Knave, when I watch'd thee striking on the 

bridge 
The savor of thy kitchen came upon me 
A little faintlier : but the wind hath changed : 
I scent it twentyfold." And then she sang, 
" ' O morning star ' (not that tall fe^on there 
Whom thou bv sorcery or unhappiness 
Or some device, hast foully overthrown), 
' O morning star that smilest in the blue, 
O star, my m.orning dream hath proven true, 
.Smile sweetly, thou ! my love hath smiled on 

me.' 

" But thou begone, take counsel, and 
awn\, 
For bard by here is one that guards a ford—" 



3i6 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



The second brother in their fool's parable — 
Will pay thee all thy wages, and to boot. 
Care not for shame : thou art not knight but 
knave." 

To whom Sir Gareth answer'd, laugh- 
ingly, 

" Parables.' Hear a parable of the knave. 

When I was kitchen-knave among the resV 

Fierce was the hearth, and one of my co- 
mates 

Own'd a rough dog, to whom he cast his 
coat, 

'Guard it,' and there was none to meddle 
with it. 

And such a coat art thou, and thee the 
King 

Gave me to guard, and such a dog am I, 

To worry, and not to flee — and — knight or 
knave — 

The knave that doth thee service as full 
knight 

Is all as good, nieseems, as any knight 

Toward thy sister's freeing." 

" Ay, Sir Knave ! 
Ay, knave, because thou strikest as a kniglit, 
Being but knave, I hate thee all the more." 

" Fair damsel, ye should worship me the 
more, 
That, being but knave, I throw thine ene- 
mies." 

" Ay, ay," she said, " but thou shalt meet 
thy match." 

So when they touch'd the second river- 
loop, 
Huge on a huge red horse, and all in mail 
Burnish'd to blinding, shone the Noonday 

Sun 
Beyond a raging shallow. As if the flower, 
That blows a globe of after arrowlets, 
Ten thousand-fold had grown, flash'd the 

fierce shield, 
All sun ; and Gareth's eyes had flying blots 
Before them when he turn'd from watching 

him. 
He from beyond the roaring shallow roar'd, 
" What doest thou, brother, in my marches 

here ? " 
And she athwart the shallow shrill'd again, 
" Here is a kitchen-knave from Arthur's hall 
Hatii overthrown thy brother, and hath his 

arms." 
" Ugh ! " cried the Sun, and vizoring up a 

red 
And cipher face of rounded foolishness, 
Piish'd horse across the foamings of the ford, 
Whom Gareth met midstream ; no room was 

there 
For lance or tourney-skill : four strokes they 

struck 
With sword, and these were mighty ; the 

new knight 
Had fear he might be shamed ; but as the 

Sun 



Heaved up a ponderous arm to strike the 

fifth. 
The hoof of his horse slipt in the stream, the 

stream 
Descended, and the Sun was v^-ash'd away. 

Then Gareth laid his lance atiiwart the 

ford; 
So drew him home ; but he that would not 

fight, 
As being all bone-battered on the rock, 
Yielded ; and Gareth sent him to the King. 
" Myself when I return will plead for thee. 
Lead, and I follow." Quietly she led. 
" Hath not the good wind, damsel, changed 

again ? " 
" Nay, not a point : nor art thou victor here. 
There lies a ridge of slate across the ford; 
His horse thereon stumbled — ay, fori saw 



" ' O Sun ' (not this strong fool whom 
thou. Sir Knave, 
Hast overthrown thro' mere unhappiness), 
'O Sun, that wakenest all to bliss or pain, 
O moon, that layest all to sleep again, 
Shine sweetly : twice my love hath smiled on 
me.' 

" What knowest thou of lovesong or of 
love ? 
Nay, nay, God wot, so thou wert nobly born, 
Thou hast a pleasant presence. Yea, per- 
chance, 

" ' O dewy flowers that open to the sun, 
O dewy flowers that close when day is done, 
Blow sweetly : twice my love hath smiled on 
me.' 

" What knowest thou of flowers, except, 

belike. 
To garnish meats with? hath not our good 

King 
Who lent me thee, the flower of kicchendom, 
A foolish love for flowers ? what stick ye 

round 
The pasty? wherewithal deck the boar's 

head ? 
Flowers? nay, the boar hath rosemaries and 

bay. 

" ' O birds, that warble to the morning 

sky, 
O birds that warble as the day goes by, 
Sing sweetly : twice my love hath smiled on 

me.' 

" What knowest thou of birds, lark, mavis, 

merle, 
Linnet? what dream ye when they utter 

forth 
May-music growing with the growing light, 
Their sweet sun-worship ? these be for the 

snare 
(So runs thy fancy) these be for the spit, 
Larding and basting. See thou have not 

uow 



GAKETH AND LYNETTE. 



317 



Larded thy last, except thou turn and fly- 
There stands the third fool of their allegory." 

F"or there beyond a bridge of treble bow, 
All in a rose-red from the west, and all 
Naked it seem'd, and glowing in the broad 
Deep-dimpled current underneath, the 

knight, 
That named himself the Star of Evening, 

stood. 

And Gareth, " Wherefore waits the mad- 
man there 
Maked in open dayshine?" "Nay," she 

cried, 
■' Not naked, only wrapt in harden'd skins 
That fit him like his own ; and so ye cleave 
His armor off him, these will turn the 
blade." 

Then the third brother shouted o'er the 

bridge, 
''O brother-star, why shine ye here so low? 
I'hy ward is higher up : but have ye slain 
The damsel's champion?" and the damsel 

cried, 

" No star of thine, but shot from Arthur's 

heaven 
M''ith all disaster unto thine and thee ! 
leox both thy younger brethren have gone 

down 
Before this youth ; and so wilt thou, Sir 

Star; 
Art thou not old ?" 

" Old, damsel, old and hard, 
Old, with the might and breath of twenty 

boys." 

Said Gareth, "Old, and over-bold in brag ! 
But that same strength which threw the 

Morning-Star 
Can throw the Evening." 

Then that other blew 
A hard and deadly note upon the horn. 
"Approach and arm me ! " With slow steps 

from out 
An old storin-beaten, russet, many-stain'd 
Pavilion, forth a grizzled damsel came, 
And arni'd him in old arms, and brought a 

helm 
With but a drying evergreen for crest, 
And gave a shield whereon the Star of 

Even 
Half-tarnish'd and half-bright, his emblem, 

shone. 
But when it glitter'd o'er the saddle-bow, 
They madly hurl'd together on the bridge. 
And Gareth overthrew him, lighted, drew. 
There met him drawn, and overthrew him 

again. 
But up like fire he started : and as oft 
As Gareth brought him grovelling on his 

knees. 
So many a time he vaulted up again ; 
Till Gareth panted hard, and his great heart, 
Foredooming all his trouble was in vain, / 



Labor'd within him, for he seem'd as one 

That all in later, sadder age begins 

To war against ill uses of a life. 

But these from all his lite arise, and cry, 

" Thou hast made us lords, and canst not put 

ns down ! " 
He half despairs ; so Gareth seem'd to strike 
Vainly, the damsel clamoring all the while, 
" Well done, knave-knight, well-stricken, O 

good knight-knave — 
O knave, as noble as any of all the knights — 
Shame me not, shame me not. I have 

prophesied — 
Strike, thou art worthy of the Table Round — 
His arms are old, he trusts the harden'd 

skin — 
Strike — strike — the wind will never change 

again." 
And Gareth hearing ever stronglier smote. 
And hew'd great pieces of his armor oif him, 
But lash'd in vain against the harden'd skin. 
And could not wholly bring him under, more 
Than loud Southwesterns, rolling ridge on 

ridge, 
The buoy that rides at sea, and dips and 

springs 
Forever ; till at length Sir Gareth's brand 
Clash'd his, and brake it utterly to the hilt. 
" I have thee now " ; but forth that other 

sprang, 
-'Vnd, all unknighllike, writhed his wiry arms 
Around him, till he felt, despite his mail. 
Strangled, but straining ev'n his uttermost 
Cast, and so hurl'd him headlong o'er the 

bridge 
Down to the river, sink or swim, and cried, 
" Lead, and I follow." 

But the damsel said, 
" I lead no longer ; ride thou at my side ; 
Thou art the kingliest of all kitchen-knaves. 

" ' O trefoil, sparkling on the rainy plain, 
O rainbow with three colors after rain. 
Shine sweetly : thrice my love hath smiled 
on me.' 

" Sir, — and, good faith, I fain had added 

— Knight, 
But that I heard thee call thyself a knave, — 
Shamed am I that I so rebuked, reviled, 
Missaid thee ; noble I am ; and thought the 

King 
Scorn'd me and mine ; and now thy pardon, 

friend. 
For thou hast ever answer'd courteously. 
And wholly bold thou art, and meek withal 
As any of Arthur's best, but, being knave. 
Hast mazed my wit : I marvel what thou art." 

"Damsel," he said, "ye be not all to 

blame. 
Saving that ye mistrusted our good King 
Would handle scorn, or yield thee, asking, one 
Not fit to cope thy quest. Ye said your say; 
Mine answer was my deed. Good sooth 1 I 

hold 



3i8 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



He scarce is knight, yea but half-man, nor 

meet 
To fight lor gentle damsel, he, who lets 
His heart be stirr'd with any foolish heat 
At any gentle damsel's waywardness. 
Shamed ? care not ! thy foul sayings fought 

for me : 
And seeing now thy words are fair, methinks. 
There rides no knight, not Lancelot, his 

great self. 
Hath force to quell me." 

Nigh upon that hour 
When the lone hem forgets his melancholy. 
Lets down his other leg, and stretching 

dreams 
Of goodly supper in the distant pool, 
Then turn'd ihe noble damsel smiling at him. 
And told him of a cavern hard at hand, 
Where bread and baken meats and good red 

wine 
Of Southland, which the l,ady Lyonors 
Had sent her coming champion, waited him. 

Anon they past a narrow comb wherein 
Were slabs of rock with figures, knights on 

liorse 
Sculptured, and deckt in slowly waning hues. 
" Sir Knave, my knight, a hermit once was 

here. 
Whose holy hand hath fashion'd on the rock 
The war of Time against the soul of man. 
And yon four fools have suck'd their allegory 
From these damp walls, and taken but the 

form . 
Know ye not these?" and Gareth lookt and 

read — 
In letters like to those the vexillary 
Hath left cragcarven o'er the streaming 

Gelt — 
" Pho.sphorus," then " Meridies " — 

" Hesperus " — 
"Nox" — "Mors," beneath five figures, 

armed men. 
Slab after slab, their faces forward all, 
And running down the Soul, a Shape that fled 
With broken wings, torn raiment and loose 

hair. 
For help and shelter to the hermit's cave. 
" Follow the faces, and we find it. Look, 
Who comes behind ? " 

For one — delay'd at first 
Thro' helping back the dislocated Kay 
To Camelot, then by what thereafter chanced. 
The damsel's headlong error thro' the wood — 
Sir Lancelot, having swum the river-loops — 
His blue shieW-lions cover'd — softly drew 
Behind the twain, and when he saw the star 
Gleam, on Sir Gareth's turning to him, cried, 
'■ Stay, felon knight, I avenge me for my 

friend." 
And Gareth crying prick'd against the cry ; 
But when they closed — in a moment — at 

one touch 
Of that skill'd spear, the wonder of the 

world — 
Went sliding down so easily, and fell, 



That when he found the grass within his 

hands 
He laugh'd ; the laughter jarr'd upon Ly- 

nette ; 
Harshly she ask'd him, " Shamed and over- 
thrown. 
And tumbled back into the kitchen-knave. 
Why laugh ye ? that ye blew your boast in 

vain ? " 
" Nay, noble damsel, but that L the son 
Of old King Lot and good Queen Bellicent, 
And victor of the bridges and the ford. 
And knight of Arthur, here lie thrown by 

whom 
I know not, all thro' mere unhappiness — 
Device and sorcery and unhappiness — 
Out, sword ; we are thrown ! " and Lancelot 
answered, " Prince, 

Gareth — thro' the mere unhappiness 
Of one who came to help thee not to harm, 
Lancelot, and all as glad to find thee whole, 
As on the day when Arthur knighted him." 

Then Gareth, " Thou — Lancelot ! — thine 

the hand 
That threw me ? An some chance to mar 

the boast 
Thy brethren of thee make — which could 

not chance — 
Had sent thee down before a lesser spear 
Shamed had I been and sad — O Lancelot — 

thou I " 

Whereat the maiden, petulant, " Lancelot, 
Why came ye not, when call'd ? and where- 
fore now 
Come ye, not call'd ? I gloried in my knave, 
Who being still rebuked, would answer still 
Courteous as any knight — but now, if knight. 
The marvel dies, and leaves me fool'd and 

trick'd, 
And only wondering wherefore play'd upon : 
And doubtful whether I and mine be scorn'd. 
Where should be truth if not in Arthur's hall. 
In Arthur's presence? Knight, knave, prince 
and fool, 

1 hate thee and forever." 

And Lancelot said, 
" Blessed be thou. Sir Gareth ! knight art 

thou 
To the King's best wish. O damsel, be ye 

wise 
To call him shamed, who is but overthrown? 
Thrown have I been, nor once, but many a 

time. 
Victor from vanquish'd issues at the last. 
And overlhrower from being overthrown. 
With sword we have not striven ; and thy 

good horse 
And thou art weary ; yet not less 1 felt 
Thy manhood thro' that wearied lance of 

thine. 
Well hast thou done : for all the stream is 

freed. 
And thou hast wreak'd his justice on his foes, 
And when reviled, hast answer'd graciously. 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



319 



And makest merry, when overthrown. Prince, 

Knight, 
Hail, Knight and Prince, and of our Table 

Round ! " 

And then when turning to Lynette he told 
The tale of Gareth, petulantly she said, 
"Ay well — ay well — for worse than being 

fool'd 
Of others, is to fool one's self. A cave. 
Sir Lancelot, is hard by, with meats and 

drinks 
And forage for the horse, and flint for fire. 
But all about it flies a honeysuckle. 
Seek, till we find." And when they sought 

and found. 
Sir Gareth drank and ate, and all his life 
Past into sleep ; on whom the maiden gazed. 
" Sound sleep be thine ! sound cause to 

sleep hast thou. 
Wake lusty ! Seem I not as tender to him 
As any mother? Ay, but such a one 
As all day long hath rated at her child, 
And vext his day, but blesses him asleep — 
Good lord, how sweetly smells the honey- 
suckle 
In tlie hush'd night, as if the world were one 
Of utter peace, and love, and gentleness ! 
O Lancelot, Lancelot" — and she clapt her 

hands — 
" Full merry am I to find my goodly knave 
Is knight and noble. See now, sworn have I, 
Else yon black felon had not let me pass, 
To bring thee back to do the battle with him. 
Thus an thou goest, he will fight thee first : 
Who doubts thee victor? so will my knight- 
knave 
Miss the full flower of this accomplishment." 

Said Lancelot, " Peradventure he, ye 

name. 
May know my shield. Let Gareth, an he 

will. 
Change his for mine, and take my charger, 

fresh, 
Not to be spurr'd, loving the battle as well 
As he that rides him." " Lancelot-like," she 

said, 
"Courteous in this. Lord Lancelot, as in 

all." 

And Gareth, wakening, fiercely clutch'd 

the shield ; 
■' Ramp, "e lance-splintering lions, on whom 

all spears 
Are rotten sticks ! ye seem agape to roar ! 
Yta, ramp and roar at leaving of your lord ! — 
Care not, good beasts, so well I care for 

you. 
O noble Lancelot, from my hold on these 
Streams virtue — fire — thro' one that will 

not shame 
Even the shadow of Lancelot under shield. 
Hence : let us go. 

Silent the silent field 
They traversed. Arthur's harp tho' sum- 
mer-wan, 



In counter motion to the clouds, allured 
The glance of Gareth dreaming on his liege. 
A star shot: " Lo," said Gareth, "the foe 

falls!" 
An owl whoopt : "Hark the victor pealing 

there ! " 
Suddenly she that rode upon his left 
Clung to the shield that Lancelot lent him, 

crying, 
" Yield, yield him this again : 't is he must 

fight : 
I curse the tongue that all thro' yesterday 
Reviled thee, and hath wrought on Lance- 
lot now 
To lend thee horse and shield : wonders ye 

have done ; 
Miracles ye caimot : here is glory enow 
In having flung the three : I see thee maim'd, 
Mangled : I sv.ear thou canst not fling the 

fourth " 

" And wherefore, damsel ? tell me all ye 

know. 
Ye cannot scare me ; nor rough face, or voice, 
Brute bulk of limb, or boundless savagery 
Appall me from the quest." 

" Nay, Prince," she cried, 
" God wot, I never look'd upon the face, 
Seeing he never rides abroad by day ; 
But watch'd him have I like a phantom pass 
Chilling the night : nor have I heard the 

voice. 
Always he made his mouthpiece of a page 
Who came and went, and still reported him 
As closing in himself the strength of ten. 
And when his anger tare him, massacring 
Man, woman, lad and girl — yea, the soft 

babe — 
Some hold that he hath swallow'd infant 

flesh. 
Monster I O prince, I went for Lancelot first. 
The quest is Lancelot's : give him back the 

shield." 

Said Gareth laughing, " An he fight for 
this. 
Belike he wins it as the better man : 
Thus — and not else ? " 

But Lancelot on him urged 
All the devisings of their c'.ivalry 
Where one might meet a mightier than him- 
self; 
How best to manage horse, lar.ce, sword and 

shield, 
And so fill up the gap where force might fail 
With .skill and fineness. Instant were his 
words. 

Then Gareth, " Here be rules. I know 

but one — 
To dash against mine enemy and to win. 
Yet have I watch'd thee victor in the joust. 
And seen thy way." "Heaven help thee," 

sigh'd Lynette. 

Then for a space, and under cloud that 
grew ^^___^ 



320 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



To thunder-gloom palling all stars, they 

rode 
In converse till she made her palfrey halt, 
Lifted an arm, and softly whisper'd, 

"There." 
And all the three were silent seeing, pilch'd 
Beside the Castle Perilous on flat field, 
A huge pavilion like a mountain peak 
Sunder the glooming crimson on the marge, 
Black, with black banner, and a long black 

horn 
Beside it hanging ; which Sir Gareth graspt, 
And so, before the two could hinder him. 
Sent all his heart and breath thro' all the 

horn. 
Echo'd the walls ; a light twinkled ; anon 
Came lights and lights, and once again he 

blew ; 
Whereon were hollow tramplings up and 

down 
And muffled voices heard, and shadows past ; 
Till high above him, circled with her maids. 
The Lady Lyonors at a window stood, 
Beautiful among lights, and waving to him 
White hands, and courtesy ; but when the 

Prince 
Three times had blown ^ after long hush — 

at last — 
The huge pavilion slowly yielded up. 
Thro' those black foldings, that which housed 

therein. 
High on a nightblack horse, in nightblack 

arms. 
With white breast-bone, and barren ribs of 

Death, 
And crown'd with fleshless laughter — some 

ten steps — 
In the half light — through the dim dawn — 

advanced 
The monster, and then paused, and spake 

no word. 



But Gareth spake and all indignantly, 
" Fool, for thou hast, men say, the strength 

often. 
Canst thou not trust the limbs thy God hath 

given. 
But must, to make the terror of thee more. 
Trick thyself out in ghastly imageries 
Of that which Life hath done vvith, and the 

clod. 
Less dull than thou, will hide with mantling 

flowers 
As if for pity? " But he spake no word ; 
Which set the horror higher : a maiden 

swoon'd ; 
The Lady Lyonors wrung her hands and 

w«pt. 



As doom'd to be the bride of Night and 

Death : 
Sir Gareth's head prickled beneath his helm ; 
And ev'n Sir Lancelot thro' his warm blood 

felt 
Ice strike, and all that mark'd him were 

aghast. 

At once Sir Lancelot's charger fiercely 

neigh'd — 
At once the black horse bounded forward f 

with him. I 

Then those that did not blink the tenor, i 

saw 
That Death was cast to ground, and slowiy 

rose. 
But with one stroke Sir Gareth split the 

skull. 
Half fell to right and half to left and lay. \ 

Then with a stronger buffet he clove the j 

helm 5 

As throughly as the skull ; and out from ' 

this 
Issued the bright face of a blooming boy 
Fresh as a flower new-born, and crying, 

" Knight, 
Slay me not : my three brethren bad me do 

it, 
To make a horror all about the house. 
And stay the world from Lady Lyonors. 
They never dream'd the passes would be 

past." 
Answer'd Sir Gareth graciously to one 
Not many a moon his younger, " My fair 

child. 
What madness made thee challenge the 

chief knight 
Of Arthur's hall ?" " Fair Sir, they bad me 

do it. 
They hate the King, and Lancelot, the 

King's friend. 
They hoped to slay him somewhere on the 

stream. 
They never dream'd the passes could be 

past." 

Then sprang the happier day from under- 
ground ; 

And Lady Lyonors and her house, with 
dance 

And revel and song, made merry over Death, 

As being after all their foolish fears 

And horrors only prov'n a blooming boy. 

So large mirth lived, and Gareth won tht 
quest 

And he that told the tale in older times 
Says that Sir Gareth wedded Lyonors, 
But he, that told it later, says Lynette. 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT. 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT, 



Dagonet, tlie fool, whom Gawain in his 

moods 
Had made mock-knight of Arthur's Table 

Round, 
At Camelot, high above the yellosving woods, 
Danced hke a wither'd leaf before the Hall. 
And toward him from the Hall, with harp in 

liand. 
And from the crown thereof a carcanet 
Oi ruby swaying to and fro, the prize 
(){ Tristram in the jousts of yesterday, 
Cune Tristram, saying, " Why skip ye so, 

Sir Fool ? " 

For Arthur and Sir Lancelot riding once 
Far down beneath a winding wall of rock 
Heard a child wail. A stump of oak half- 
dead, 
From roots like some black coil of carven 

snakes 
Clutch'd at the crag, and started thro' mid- 
air 
BearinsT an eagle's nest : and thro' the tree 
Rush'd ever a rainy wind, and thro' the 

wind 
Pierced ever a child's cry : and crag and 

tree 
Scaling, Sir Lancelot from the perilous nest. 
This ruby necklace thrice around her neck, 
And all uiiscarr'd from beak or talon, 

brought 
A maiden babe ; which Arthur pitving took. 
Then gave it to his Queen to rear : the 

Queen 
But coldly acquiescing, in her white arms 
Received, and after loved it tenderlv. 
And named it Nestling ; so forgot herself 
A moment, and her cares ; till that young 

life 
Being smitten in mid-heaven with mortal 

cold 
Past from her : and in time the c.ircanet 
Vext her with plaintive memories of the 

child : 
So she, delivering it to Arthur, said, 
"Take thou the jewels of this dead inno- 
cence. 
And make them, an thou wilt, a tourney- 
prize." 

To whom the King, " Peace to thine 

eagle-borne 
Dead tiestling, and this honor after death. 
Following thy will ! but, O my Queen, I 

muse 
Why ye not wear on arm, or neck, or zone. 
Those diamonds that I rescued from the 

tarn. 
And Lancelot won, methought. for thee to 

wear." 



" Would rather ye had let them fail," she 

cried, 
" Plunge and be lost — ill-fated as they 

were, 
A bitterness to me ! — ye look amazed, 
Not knowing they were lost as soon as 

given — 
Slid from my hands, when I was leaning 

out 
Above the river — that unhappy child 
Past in her barge : but rosier luck will go 
With these rich jewels, seeing that they 

came 
Not from the skeleton of a brother-slayer, 
But the sweet body of a maiden babe. 
Perchance — who knows? — the purest of 

thy knights 
May win them for the purest of my maids." 

She ended, and the cry of a great jousts 
With trumpet-blowings ran on all the ways 
I'rom Camelot in among the faded fields 
To furthest towers ; and everywhere the 

knights 
Arm'd for a day of glory before the King. 

But on the hither side of that loud morn 
Into the hall stagger'd, his visage ribb'd 
From ear to ear with dogwhip-weals, his 

nose 
Bridge-broken, one eye out, and one hand 

off, 
And one with shatter'd fingers dangling 

lame, 
A churl, to whoin indignantly the King, 
" My churl, for whom Christ died, what 

evil beast 
Hath drawn his claws athwart thy face ? or 

fiend? 
Man was it who marr'd Heaven's image in 

thee thus?" 

Then, sputtering thro' the hedge of sphn- 

ter'd teeth. 
Yet strangers to the tongue, and with blunt 

stump 
Pitch-blacken'd sawing the air, said the 

maim'd churl, 
" He took them and he drave them to his 

tower — 
Some hold he was a table-knight of thine — 
.A hundred goodly ones — the Red Knight, 

he — 
Lord, I was tending swine, and the Red 

Knight 
Brake in upon me and drave them to bis 

tower ; 
And when I cali'd upon thy name as one 
That doest right by gentle and by churl. 



322 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT. 



Maim'd me and maul'd, and would outright 

have slain, 
Save that he sware me to a message, say- 
ing— 
' Tell thou the King and all his liars, that I 
Have founded my Round Table in the 

North, 
And whatsoever his own knights have sworn 
My knights have sworn the counter to it — 

and say 
My tower is full of harlots, like his court. 
But mine are worthier, seeing they profess 
To be none other than themselves — and 

say 
My knights are all adulterers like his own, 
But mine are truer, seeing they profess 
To be none other ; and say his hour is 

come, 
The heathen are upon him, his long lance 
Broken, and his Excalibur a straw.' " 

Then Arthur turn'd to Kay the seneschal, 
" Take thou my churl, and tend him curi- 
ously 
Like a king's heir, till all his hurts be whole. 
The heathen — but that ever-climbing wave, 
Hurl'd back again so often in empty foam. 
Hath lain for years at rest — and renegades, 
Thieves, bandits, leavings of confusion, 

whom 
The wholesome realm is purged of other- 
where, — 
Friends, thro' your manhood and your 

fealty, — now 
Make their last head like Satan in the 

North. 
My younp;er knights, new-made, in whom 

your flower 
Waits to be solid fruit of golden deeds. 
Move with me toward their quelling, which 

achieved, 
The loneliest ways are safe from shore to 

shore. 
But thou. Sir Lancelot, sitting in my place 
Enchair'd to-morrow, arbitrate the field ; 
For wherefore shouldst thou care to mingle 

with it. 
Only to yield my Queen her own again ? 
Speak, Lancelot, thou art silent : is it well ? " 

Thereto Sir Lancelot answer'd, " It is 
well : 
Yet better if the King abide, and leave 
The leading of his younger knights to me. 
Else, for the King has will'd it, it is well." 

Then Arthur rose and Lancelot follow'd 

him. 
And while they stood without the doors, the 

King 
Turn'd to him saying, " Is it then so well ? 
Or mine the blame that oft I seem as he 
Of whom was written, ' a sound is in his 

ears ' — 
The foot that loiters, bidden go, — the 

glance 
That only seems half-loyal to command, — 
A manner somewhat fall'n from reverence — 



Or have I dream'd the bearing ot our knight* 
Tells of a manhood ever less and lower? 
Or whence the fear lest this my realm, up- 

rear'd. 
By noble deeds at one with noble vows. 
From flat confusion and brute violences. 
Reel back into the beast, and be no more?" 

He spoke, and taking all his younger 

knights, 
Down the slope city rode, and sharply turn'd 
North by the gate. In her high bower the 

Queen, 
Working a tapestry, lifted up her head, 
Watch'd her lord pass, and knew not that 

she sigh'd. 
Then ran across her memory the strange 

rhyme 
Of bygone Merlin, " Where is he who knows ? 
From the great deep to the great deep he 

goes." 

But when the morning of a tournament. 
By these in earnest those in mockery call'd 
The Tournament of the Dead Innocence, 
Brake with a wet wind blowing, Lancelot, 
Round wliose sick head all night, like birds 

of prey. 
The words of Arthur flying shriek'd, arose. 
And down a streetway hung with folds of 

pure 
White samite, and by fountains running 

wine, 
Where children sat in white with cups of 

gold. 
Moved to the lists, and there, with slow sad 

steps 
Ascending, fiU'd his double-dragon'd chair. 

He glanced and saw the stately galleries. 
Dame, damsel, each thro' worship of their 

Queen 
White-robed in honor of the stainless child. 
And some with scatter'd jewels, like a bank 
Of maiden snow mingled with sparks of fire. 
He look! but once, and veil'd liis eyes again. 

The sudden trumpet sounded as in a dream 
To ears but half-awaked, then one low roll 
C)f Autumn thunder, and the jousts began : 
And ever the wind blew, and yellowing leaf 
And gloom and gleam, and shower and shorn 

plume 
Went down it. Sighing weariedly, as one 
Who sits and gazes on a faded fire. 
When all the goodlier guests are past away. 
Sat their great umpire, looking o'er the lists. 
He saw the laws that ruled the tournament 
Broken, but spake not ; once, a knight cast 

down 
Before his throne of arbitration cursed _ 
The dead babe and the follies of the King; 
And once the hces of a helmet crack'd. 
And show'd him, like a vermin in its hole, 
Modred, a narrow face : anon he heard 
The voice that billow'd round the barrier? 

roar 
An ocean-sounding welcome to one knight, 




"Sir Lancelot from the perilous nest, 
And all unscarr'd from beak or talon, brought 
A maiden babe ; which Arthur pitying took." 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT. 



323 



But newly enter'd, taller than the rest, 
And armor'd all in forest green, whereon 
There tript a hundred tiny silver deer, 
And wearing but a holly-spray for crest, 
With ever-scattering b^i-ries, and on shield 
A spear, a harp, a bug,' — Tristram — late 
From overseas in Britta.iy return'd. 
And marriage with a princess of that realm, 
Isolt the White — Sir Tristram of the 

Woods — 
Whom Lancelot knew, had held sometime 

with pain 
His own against him, and now yearn'd to 

shake 
The burthen off his heart in one full shock 
With Tristram ev'n to death : his strong 

hands gript 
And dinted the gilt dragons right and left. 
Until he groan 'd for wrath — so many of 

those. 
That ware their ladies' colors on the casque, 
Drew from before Sir Tristram to the bounds. 
And there with gibes and flickering mock- 
eries 
Stood, while he mutter'd, " Craven crests ! 

O shame ! 
What faith have these in whom they sware 

to love? 
The glory of our Round Table is no more." 

So Tristram won, and Lancelot gave, the 

gems, 
Not speaking other word than " Hast thou 

won ? 
Art thou the purest, brother? See, tTie hand 
Wherewith thou takest is red ! " to whom 
Tristram, half plagued by Lancelot's lan- 
guorous mood. 
Made answer, "Ay, but wherefore toss me 

this 
Like a dry bone cast to some hungry hound ? 
Let be thy fair Queen's fantasy. Strength 

of heart 
And might of limb, but mainly use and skill, 
Are winners in this pastime of our King. 
My hand — belike the lance hath dript upon 

it — 
No blood of mine, I trow ; but O chief 

knight, 
Right arm of Arthur in the battlefield. 
Great brother, thou nor I have made the 

world ; 
Be happy in thy fair Queen as I in mine." 

And Tristram round the gallery made his 

horse 
Caracole; then bow'd his homage, bluntly 

saying, 
"Fair damsels, each to him vi'ho worships 

each 
Sole Queen of Beauty and of love, behold 
This day my Queen of Beauty is not here." 
Then most of these were mute, some an- 

ger'd, one 
Murmuring "All courtesy is dead," and 

one, 
" The glory of our Round Table is no more." 



Then fell thick rain, plume droopt and 
mantle clung, 
And pettish cries awoke, and the wan day 
Went glooming down in wet and weariness : 
But under her black brows a swarthy dame 
Laught shrilly, crying "Praise the patient 

saints. 
Our one white day of Innocence hath past, 
Tho' somewhat draggled at the skirt. So be 

it. 
The snowdrop onlj', flow'ring thro' the year, 
Would make the world as blank as winter- 
tide. 
Come — let us comfort their sad eyes, our 

Queen's 
And Lancelot's, at this night's solemnity 
With all the kindlier colors of the field." 



So dame and damsel glitter'd at the feast 
Variously gay : for he that tells the tale 
Liken'd them, saying "as when au hour of 

cold 
Falls on the mountain in midsummer snows, 
And all the purple slopes of mountain flowers 
Pass under white, till the warm hour returns 
With veer of wind, and all are flowers 

again " ; 
So dame and damsel cast the simple white, 
And glowing in all colors, the live grass, 
Rose-campion, bluebell, kingcup, poppy, 

glanced 
About the revels, and with mirth so loud 
Beyond all use, that, half-amazed, the Queen, 
And wroth at Tristram and the lawless 

jousts, 
Brake up their sports, then slowly to her 

bower 
Parted, and in her bosom pain was lord. 

And little Da^onet on the morrow morn, 
High over all the yellowing Autumn-tide, 
Danced like a wither'd leaf before the hall. 
Then Tristram saying, " Why skip ye so, 

Sir Fool?" 
Wheel'd round on either heel, Dagonet re- 
plied, 
" Belike for lack of wiser company ; 
Or being fool, and seeing too much wit 
Makes the world rotten, why, belike I skip 
To know myself the wisest knight of all." 
"Ay, fool," said Tristram, "but 't is eating 

dry 
To dance without a catch, a roundelay 
To dance to." Then he twangled on his 

harp, 
And while he twangled little Dagonet stood, 
Quiet as any water-sodden log 
Stay'd in the wandering warble of a brook ; 
But when the twangling ended, skipt again ; 
Then being ask'd, " Why skipt ye not, Sir 

Fool?" 
Made answer, " I had liefer twenty years 
Skip to the broken music of my brains 
Than any broken music ye can make." 
Then Tristram, waiting for the quip tocort>e, 
" Good now, what music have I broicea, 
fool ? " 



324 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT. 



And little Dagonet, skipping, "Arthur, the 

king's ; 
For when thou playest that air with Queen 

Isolt, 
Thou makest broken music with thy bride, 
Her daintier namesake down in Brittany — • 
And so thou breakest Arthur's music too." 
" Save for that broken music in thy brains, 
Sir Fool," said Tristram, " I would break 

thy head. 
Fool, I came late, the heathen wars were 

o'er, 
The life had flown, we sware but by the 

shell — 
I am but a fool to reason with a fool. 
Come, thou art crabb'd and sour; but lean 

me down, 
Sir Dagonet, one of thy long asses' ears, 
And hearken if my music be not true. 

"'Free love — free field — we love but 
while we may : 
The woods are hush'd, their music is no 

more : 
The leaf is dead, the yearning past away: 
New leaf, new life — the days of frost are 

o'er: 
New life, new love to suit the newer day : 
New loves are sweet as those that went be- 
fore : 
Free love, — free field — we love but while 
we may.' 

" Ye might have moved slow-measure to 
my tune, 
Not stood stockstill. I made it in the woods. 
And found it ring as true as tested gold." 

But Dagonet with one foot poised in his 
hand, 
" Friend, did ye mark that fountain yester- 
day 
Made lo run wine? — but this had run itself 
All "ut like a long life to a sour end — 
And them that round it sat with golden cups 
To hand the wine to whomsoever came — 
The twelve small damosels white as Inno- 
cence, 
Tn honor of poor Innocence tlie babe, 
Who left the gems which Innocence the 

Queen 
Lent to the King, and Innocence the King 
Gave for a prize — and one of those white 

slips 
Handed her cup and piped, the pretty one, 
'Drink, drink. Sir Fool,' and thereupon I 

drank, 
Spat — pish — the cup was gold, the draught 
was mud." 
And Tristram, " Was it muddier than 
thy gibes? 
Is all the laughter gone dead ont of thee? — • 
Not marking how the knighthood mock thee, 

fool — 
' Fear God : honor the king — his one true 

knight — 
Sole follower of the vows' — for here be 
they 



Who knew thee swine enow before I came, 
Smuttier than blasted grain : but when the 

King 
Had made thee fool, thy vanity so shot up 
It frighted all free fool from out thy heart ; 
Which left thee less than fool, and less than 

swine, 
A naked aught — yet swine I hold thee still, 
For 1 have flung thee pearls, and find thee 



And little Dagonet mincing with his feet, 
" Knight, an ye fling those rubies round my 

neck 
In lieu of hers, I '11 hold thou hast some • 

touch 
Of music, since I care not for thy pearls. 
Swine? I have wallow'd, I have wash'd — 

the world 
Is flesh and shadow — I have had my day. 
The dirty nurse, Experience, in her kind 
Hath foul'd me — an 1 wallow'd, then I 

wash'd — 
I have had my day and my philosophies — 
And thank the Lord I am King Arthur's 

fool. 
Swine, say ye? swine, goats, asses, rams and 

geese 
Troop'd round a Paynim harper once, who 

thrumm'd 
On such a wire as musically as thou 
Some such fine song — but never a king's 

fool." 

And Tristram, " Then were swine, goats, 
asses, geese 
The wiser fools, seeing thy Paynim bard 
Had such a mastery of his mystery 
That he could Iiarp his wife up out of Hell." 

Then Dagonet, turning on the ball of his 

foot, 
"And whither harp'st thou thine? down' 

and thyself 
Down ! and two more : a helpful harper 

thou. 
That harpest downward i Dost thou know 

the star 
We call the harp of Arthur up in heaven?" 

And Tristram, "Ay, Sir Fool, for wlieii 
our King 
Was victor wellnigh day by day, the knights, 
Glorying in each new glory, set his name 
High on all hills, and in the signs of heaven." 

And Dagonet answer'd, " Ay, and when 
the land 
Was freed, and the Queen false, ye set your- 
self 
To babble about him, all to show your wit — 
And whether he were king by courtesy. 
Or king by right — and so went harping 

down 
The black king's highway, got so far, and 

grew 
So witty, that ye play'd at ducks and drake.' 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT. 



3*5 



With Arthur's vows on the great lake of 

fire. 
Tuwhoo ! do ye see it? do ye see the star?" 
"Nay, fool," said Tristram, "not in open 

dsy " 
And Dagonet, " Nay, nor will : I see it and 

hear. 
It makes a silent music up in heaven. 
And I, and Arthur and the angels hear, 
And then we skip." " Lo, fool," he said, 

" ye talk 
Fool's treason : is the king thy brother 

fool ? " 
Then little Dagonet claut his hands and 

shrill'd, 
" Ay, ay, my brother fool, the king of fools ! 
Conceits himself as God that he can make 
Figs out of thistles, silk from bristles, milk 
From burning spurge, honey from hornet- 
combs. 
And men from beasts. — Long live the king 

•of fools !" 

And down the city Dagonet danced away. 
But thro' the slowly-mellowing avenues 
And solitary passes of the wood 
Rode Tristram toward Lyonesse and the 

west- 
Before him fled the face of Queen Isolt 
With ruby-circled neck, but evermore 
Past, as a rustle or twitter in the wood 
Made dull his inner, keen his outer eye 
For all that walk'd, or crept, or perched, or 

flew. 
Anon the face, as, when a gust hath 

blown, 
Unrufifling waters re-collect the shape 
Of one that in them sees himself, return'd ; 
But at the slot or fewmets of a deer, 
Or ev'n a fall'n feather, vanish'd again. 

So on for all that day from lawn to lawn 
Thro' many a league-long bower he rode. At 

length 
A lodge of intertwisted beechen-boughs 
Furze-cramm'd, andbrackenrooft, the which 

himself 
Built for a summer day with Queen Isolt 
Against a shower, dark in the golden grove 
Appearing, sent his fancy back to where 
She lived a moon in that low lodge with 

him : 
Till Mark her lord had past, the Cornish 

king. 
With six or seven, when Tristram was away, 
And snatch'd her thence ; yet dreading worse 

than shame 
Her warrior Tristram, spake not any word. 
But bode his hour, devising wretchedness. 

And now that desert lodge to Tristram 
lookt 
So sweet, that, halting, in he past, and sank 
Down on a drift of foliage random-blown ; 
1 But could not rest for musing how to smooth 
And sleek his marriage over to the Queen. 
Perchance in lone Tintagil far from all 



The tonguesters of the court she had not 

heard. 
But then what folly had sent him overseas 
After she left him lonely here? a name? 
Was it the name of one in Brittany, 
Isolt, the daughter of the Kmg? " Isolt 
Of the white hands" they call'd her: the 

sweet name 
Allured him first, and then the maid herself, 
Who served him well with those white hands 

of hers. 
And loved him well, until himself had thought 
He loved her also, wedded c.-.sily. 
But left her all as easily, ,Tnd reiurn'd. 
Uhe black-blue Irish hair and Irisii eves 
Had drawn him home — w hat marvel ? then 

he laid 
His brows upon the drifted leaf and dream 'd. 



He seem'd to pace the strand of Brittany \ 
Between Isolt of Britain and his bride, 
And show'd them both the ruby-chain, and 

both 
Began to struggle for it, till his Queen 
Graspt it so hard, that all her hand was red. 
Then cried the Breton, " Look, her hand is 

red! 
These be no rubies, this is frozen blood. 
And melts within her hand — her hand is 

hot 
With ill desires, but this I gave thee, look, 
Is all as cool and white as any flower." 
Follow'd a rush of eagle's wings, and then 
A whimpering of the spirit of the child. 
Because the twain had spoil'd her carcanet. 

Hedream'd; but Arthur with a hundred 

spears 
Rode far, till o'er the illimitable reed. 
And many a glancing plash and sallowy isle, 
The wide-wing'd sunset of the misty marsh 
Glared on a huge machicolated lower 
That stood with open doors, whereout was 

roll'd 
A roar of riot, as from men secure 
Amid their marshes, ruffians at their ease 
Among their harlot-brides, an evil song. 
" Lo there," said one of Arthur's youth, for 

there, 
High on a grim dead tree before the tower, 
A goodly brother of The Table Round 
Sw'ung by the neck : and on the boughs a 

shield 
Showing a shower of blood in a field noir. 
And tlierebeside a horn, inflamed the knights 
At that dishonor done the gilded spur. 
Till each would clash the shield, and blow 

the horn. 
But Arthur waved them back : alone he rode 
Then at the dry harsh roar of the great horn. 
That sent the face of all the marsh aloft 
An ever upward-rushing storm and cloud 
Of shriek and plume, the Red Knight heard, 

and all. 
Even to tipmost lance and topmost 
In blood-red armor sallying, howl' 

King, 



1 ClUUU 

ght heard, J 

t helm, f 
I'd to the 



326 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT. 



" The teeth of Hell flay bare and gnash 

thee flat ! — 
Lo ! art thou not that eunuch-hearted King 
Who fain had dipt free manhood from the 

world — 
The woman-worshipper? Yea, God's curse, 

and I ! 
Slain was the brother of my paramour 
By a kni.cht of thine, and 1 that heard her 

whine 
And snivel, being eunuch-hearted too, 
Sware by the scorpion-worm that twists in 

hell, 
And stings itself to everlasting death, 
To hang whatever knight of thine I fought 
And tumbled. Art thou King? — Look to 

thy life ! " 

He ended: Arthur knew the voice; the 
face 
Wellnigh was helmet-hidden, and the name 
Went wandering somewhere darkling in his 

mind. 
And Arthur deign'd not use of word or 

sword. 
But let the drunkard, as he stretch'd from 

horse 
To strike him, overbalancing his bulk, 
Down from the causeway heavily to the 

swamp 
Fall, as the crest of some slow-arching wave 
Heard in dead night along that table-shore 
Drops flat, and after the great waters break 
Whitening for half a league, and thin them- 
selves 
Far over sands marbled with moon and 

cloud, 
From less and less to nothing ; thus he fell 
Kcad licavy, while the knights, who watch'd 

him, roar'd 
And shouted and leapt down upon the fall'n ; 
There trampled out his face from being 

known. 
And sank his head in mire, and slimed them- 
selves : 
Nor heard the King for their own cries, but 

sprang 
Thro' open doors, and swording right and 

left 
Men, women, on their sodden faces, hurl'd 
The tables over and the wines, and slew 
Till all the rafters rang with woman-yells. 
And all the pavement stream'd with mas- 
sacre : 
Then, yell with yell echoing, they fired the 

tower. 
Which half that autumn night, like the live 

North, 
Red-pulsing up thro' Aliolh and .'Vlcor, 
Made all above it, and a hundred meres 
About it, as tlie water Moab saw 
Come round by the East, and out beyond 

them flush'd 
T"he long low dune, and lazy-plunging sea. 

So all the ways were safe from shore to 
shore. 
But in the heart of Arthur pain was lord. 



Then out of Tristram waking the rod 

dream 
Fled with a shout, and that low lodge re- 

turn'd. 
Mid-forest, and the wind among the boughs. 
He whistled his good warhorse left to graze 
Among the forest greens, vaulted upon him, 
And rode beneath an ever-showering leaf. 
Till one lone woman, weeping near a cross, 
Stay'd him, "Why weep ye?" "Lord," 

she said, "my man 
Hath left me or is dead " ; whereon he 

thought — 
" What an she hate me now? I would not 

this 
What an she love me still? I would not 

that. 
I know not what I would" — but said to 

her, — 
" Yet weep not thou, lest, if thy mate return, 
He find thy favor changed and love thee 

not" — 
Then pressing day by day thro' Lyonesse 
Last in a roky hollow, belling, heard 
The hounds of Mark, and felt the goodly 

hounds 
Yelp at his heart, but, turning, past and 

gain'd 
Tintagil, half in sea, and high on land, 
A crown of towers. 

Down in a casement sat, 
A low sea-sunset glorying round her hair 
And glossy-throated grace. Isolt the Queen. 
And when she heard the feet of Tristram 

grind 
The spiring stone that scaled about her 

tower, 
Flush'd, started, met him at the doors, and 

there 
Belted his body with her white embrace. 
Crying aloud, "Not Mark — not Mark, my 

sou! I 
The footstep flutter'd me at first : not he : 
Catlike thro' his own castle steals my Mark, 
But warrior-wise thnu stridest through his 

halls 
Who hates thee, as I him — ev'n to the 

death. 
My soul, I felt my hatred for my Mark 
Quicken within me, and knew that thou wert 

"'g'>-'.' 
To whom Sir Tristram smiling, " I am here. 
Let be thy Mark, seeing he is not thine." 

And drawing somewhat backward she re- 
plied, 

" Can he be wrong'd v\ho is not ev'n his 
own, 

But save for dread of thee had beaten me, 

Scratch'd, bitten, blinded, marr'd me some- 
how—Mark? 

What rights are his that dare not strike for 
them ? 

Not lift a hand — not, tho' he found me 
thus ! 

But hearken, have ye met him? hence hs 
want 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT. 



To-day for three days' hunting — as he 

said — 
And so returns belike within an hour. 
Mark's way, my soul I — but eat not thou 

with him. 
Because he hates thee even more than fears ; 
Nor drink : and when thou passest any wood 
Close visor, lest an arrow from the bush 
Should leave me all alone with Mark and 

hell. 
My God, the measure of my hate for Mark 
Is as the measure of my love for thee." 

So, pluck'd one way by hate and one by 

love, 
Drain'd of her force, again she sat, and 

spake 
To Tristram, as he knelt before her, saying, 
" O hunter, and O blower of the horn. 
Harper, and thou hast been a rover too, 
For, ere 1 mated with my shambling king, 
V'e twain had fallen out about the bride 
Of one — his name is out of me — the prize. 
If prize she were — (what marvel — she could 

see) — 
Thine, friend; and ever since my craven 

seeks 
To wreck thee villanously : but, O Sir 

Knight, 
What dame or damsel have ye kneeled to 

last? " 

And Tristram, " Last to my Queen Para- 
mount, 
Here now to my Queen Paramount of love, 
.\nd loveliness, ay, lovelier than when first 
Her light feet fell on our rough Lyonesse, 
Sailing from Irelaud." 

• Softly laugh'd Isoit, 
" Flatter me not, for hath not our great 

Queen 
My dole of beauty trebled ? " and he said, 
" Her beauty is her beauty, and thine thine. 
And thine is more to me — soft, gracious, 

kind — 
Save when thy Mark is kindled on thy lips 
Most gracious ; but she, haughty, ev'n to 

him, 
Lancelot ; for I have seen him wan enow 
To make one doubt if ever the great Queen 
Have yielded him her love." 

To whom IsoIt, 
" Ah then, false hunter and false harper, thou 
Who breakest thro' the scruple of my bond. 
Calling me thy white hind, and saying to me 
That Guinevere had sinned against the 

highest. 
And I — misyoked with such a want of 

man — 
That I could hardly sin against the lowest." 

He answer'd, "O my soul, be comforted I 
If iliis be sweet, to sin in leading-strings. 
If here be comfort, and if ours be sin, 



Crown'd warrant had we for the crowning 

sin 
That made us happy : but how ye greet me 

— fear 
And fault and doubt — no word of that fond 

tale — 
Thy deep heart-yearnings, thy sweet memo- \ 

ries 
Of Tristram in that year he was away." 

And, saddening on the sudden, spake 

Isolt, 
" I had forgotten all in my strong joy 
To see thee — yearnings ? — ay ! for, hour 

by hour. 
Here in the never-ended afternoon, 
O sweeter than all memories of thee. 
Deeper than any yearnings after thee 
Seem'd those far-rolling, westward-smiling 

seas. 
Watched from this tower. Isolt of Britain 

dash'd 
Before Isolt of Brittany on the si rand. 
Would that have chill'd her bride-kiss? 

Wedded her ? 
Fought in her father's battles ? wounded 

there? 
The King was all fulfill'd with gratefulness, » 
And she, my namesake of the hands, that ; 

heal'd j 

Thy hurt and heart with unguent and 

caress — 
Well — can I wish her any huger wrong 
I'han having known thee ? her too hast thou I 

left 
To pine and waste in those sweet memories? j 
O were I not my Mark's, by whom all men : 
Are noble, I should hate thee more than ' 

love." ' 

And Tristram, fondling her light hands, ! 

replied, 
" Grace, Queen, for being loved : she loved 

me well. 
Did I love her? the name at least I loved. 
Isolt ? -- I fought his battles, for Isolt ! 
The night was dark ; the true star set. 

Isolt ! 

The name was ruler of the dark Isolt ? 

Care not for her ! patient, and prayerful, 

meek. 
Pale-blooded, she will yield herself to God." 

And Isolt answer'd, " Yea, and why not I? 
Mine is the larger need, who am not meek. 
Pale-blooded, prayerful. Let me tell thee 

now. 
Here one black, mute midsummer night I 

sat 
Lonely, but musing on thee, wondering 

where, 
Murmuring a light song I had heard thee 

sing, 
And once or twice I spake thy name aloud. 
Then flash'd a levin-brand ; and near me 

stood. 
In fuming sulpluir blue and sreen, a fiend — 
Mark's way to steal behind one in thft dark — ' 



328 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT. 



' For there was Mark : ' He has wedded her,' 

he said, 
Not said, but hiss'd it : then this crown of 

towers 
So sliook to such a roar of all the sky. 
That liere in utter dark I swoon'd away. 
And woke again in utter dark, and cried, 
'I will flee hence and give myself to God ' — 
And thou wert lying in thy new Ionian's 

arms." 

Then Tristram, ever dallying with her 

hand, 
"May God be with thee, sweet, when old 

and gray. 
And past desire ! " a saying that anger'd 

her. 
" ' May God be with thee, sweet, when thou 

art old, 
And sweet no more to me ! ' I need Him 

now. 
For when had Lancelot utter'd aught so gross 
Ev'n to the swineherd's nialkin in the mast? 
The greater man, the greater courtesy. 
But thou, thro' ever harrying thy wild 

beasts — 
Save that to touch a harp, tilt with a lance 
Becomes thee well — art grown wild beast 

thyself 
How darest thou, if lover, push me even 
In fancy from thy side, and set me far 
In the gray distance, half a life away. 
Her to be loved no more? Unsay it, un- 

swear ! 
Flatter me rather, seeing me so weak. 
Broken with Mark and hate and solitude. 
Thy marriage and mine own, that I should 

suck 
Lies like sweet wines : lie to me : I' believe. 
Will ye not lie ? not swear, as there ye 

kneel, 
And solemnly as when ye sware to him. 
The man of men, our King — My God, the 

power 
Was once in vows when men believed the 

King! 
They lied not then, who sware, and thro' 

their vows 
The King prevailing made his realm : — I 

say. 
Swear to me thou wilt love me ev'n when 

old. 
Gray-haired, and past desire, and in de- 
spair." 

Then Tristram, pacing moodily up and 
down, 

" Vows ! did ye keep the vow ye made to 
Mark 

More than I mine? Lied, say ye? Nay, 
but learnt, 

The vow that binds too strictly snaps it- 
self— 

My knighthood taught me this — ay, being 
snapt — 

We run more counter to the soul thereof 

Than had we never sworn. I swear no 
more. 



I swore to the great King, and am forsworn. 
For once — ev'n to the height — I honor'd 

him. 
' Man, is he man at all ? ' methought, when 

first ; 

I rode from our rough Lyonesse, and be- 
held 
That victor of the Pagan throned in hall — 
His hair, a sun that ray'd from off a brow 
Like hillsnow high in heaven, the steel-blue 

eyes, 
The golden beard that clothed his lips with 

light — 
Moreover, that weird legend of his birth. 
With Merlin's mystic babble about his end, 
Amazed nie ; then, his foot was on a stool ' 
Shaped as a dragon ; he seem'd to nie no \ 

man, : 

But Michael trampling Satan ; so I sware, 
Being amazed : but this went by — the vows ! 
O ay — the wholesome madness of an hour — 
They served their use, their time; for every 

knight 
Believed himself a greater than himself. 
And every follower eyed him as a God : 
Till he, being lifted up beyond himself. 
Did mightier deeds than elsewise he had 

done, 
And so the realm was made ; but then their 

VOVi'S — 

First mainly thro' that sullying of our I 

Queen — ^ 

Began to gall the knighthood, a^ing • 

whence 
Had Arthur right to bind them to himself? 
Dropt down from heaven ? wash'd up from 

out the deep ? 
They fail'd to trace him thro' the flesh and 

blood 
Of our old Kings : whence then ? a doubtful 

lord 
To bind them by inviolable vows. 
Which flesh and blood perforce would vio- 
late : 
For feel this arm of mine — the tide within 
Red with free chase and heather-scented air. 
Pulsing full man ; can Arthur make me pure 
As any maiden child? lock up my tongue 
From uttering freely what I freely hear? 
Bind me to one? The great world laughs . 

at it. 
And worldling of the world am I, and know 
The ptarmigan that whitens ere his hour 
Wooes his own end ; we are not angels here 
Nor shall be : vows — 1 am woodman of the 

woods. 
And hear the garnet-headed yaflSngale '• 

Mock them : my soul, we love but while we 

may : 
And therefore is my love so large for thee. 
Seeing it is not bounded save by love." 

Here ending, he moved toward her, and 
she said, 
" Good : an I turn'd away my love for thee 
To some one thrice as courteous as thy- 
self— 
For courtesy wins woman all as well 



TO THE QUEEN. 



339 



As valor may — but he that doses both 
Is perfect, he is Lancelot — taller indeed. 
Rosier, and comelier, thou — but say I loved 
This knightliest of all knights, and cast thee 

back 
Thine own small saw ' We love but while we 

may,' 
Well then, what answer ? " 

He that while she spake. 
Mindful of what he brought to adorn her 

with, 
Vhe jewels, had let one finger lightly touch 
The warm white apple of her throat, replied, 
"Press this a little closer, sweet, until — 
Come, I am hunger'd and half-anger'd — 

meat. 
Wine, wine — and I will love thee to the 

death, 
And out beyond into the dream to come." 

So then, when both were brought to full 

accord. 
She rose, and set before him all he will'd ; 
And after these had comforted the blood 
With meats and wines, and satiated their 

hearts — 
Now talking of their woodland paradise, 1 

The deer, the dews, the fern, the founts, the 

lawns ; 
Now mocking at the much ungainliness, [ 

And craven shifts, and long crane legs of 1 

Mark— ! 

Then Tristram laughing caught the harp, 

and sang : 

"Ay, ay, O ay — the winds that bend the 
brier ! 
A star in heaven, a star within the mere ! 
Ay, ay, O ay — a star was my desire. 
And one was far apart, and one was near : 



Ay, ay, O ay — the winds that bow the 

grass ! 
And one was water and one star was fire, 
And one will ever shine and one will pass- 
Ay, ay, O ay — the winds that move the 

mere." 

Then in the light's last glimmer Tristram 

show'd 
And swung the ruby carcanet. She cried, 
" The collar of some order, which our King 
Haih newly founded, all for thee, my soul. 
For thee, to yield thee grace beyond thy 

peers." 
" Not so, my Queen," he said, " but the 

red fruit 
Grown on a magic oak-tree in mid-heaven, 
And won by Tristram as a tourney-prize. 
And hither brought by Tristram for his last 
Love-offering and peace-offering unto thee." 

He rose, he turn'd, and flinging round her 

neck, 
Claspt it ; but while he bow'd himself to lay 
Warm kisses in the hollow of her throat. 
Out of the dark, just as the lips had touch'd, 
Behind him rose a shadow and a shriek — 
" Mark's way," said Mark, and clove him 

thro' the brain. 

That night came Arthur home, and while 

he climb'd. 
All in a death-dumb autumn-dripping gloom, 
'I'he stairway to the hall, and look'd and saw 
The great Queen's bower was dark, — about 

his feet 
A voice clung sobbing till he question'd it, 
" What art thou ? " and the voice about his 

feet 
Sent up an answer, sobbing, " I am thy fool, 
And I shall never make thee smile again." 



TO THE OUEEN. 



EPILOGUE TO THE IDYLS. 



O LOYAL to the royal in thyself, 
And loyal to thy land, as this to thee — 
Bear witness, that rememberable day, 
When, pale as yet, and fever-worn, the 

Prince 
Who scarce had pluck'd his flickering life 

again 
From half-way down the shadow of the 

grave. 
Past with thee thro' thy people and their 

love. 
And London roU'd one tide of joy thro' all 
Her trebled millions, and loud leagues of 

man 
And welcome I witness, too, the silent cry. 



The prayer of many a race and creed, and 

clime — 
Thunderless lightnings striking under sea 
From sunset and sunrise of all thy realm, 
And that true North, whereof we lately 

heard 
A strain to shame us " keep you to your- 
selves : 
.So loyal is too costly ! friends — your love 
Ts but a burden : loose the bond, and go." 
Is this the tone of empire? here the faith 
That made us rulers ? this, indeed, her voic« 
And meaning, whom the roar of Hougou« 

mont 
Left mightiest of all peoples under heaven > 



330 



A 1VELCOME. 



What shock has fool'd her since, that she 

should speak 
So feebly? wealthier — wealthier — hour by 

hour ! 
The voice of Britain, or a sinking land, 
Some third-rate isle half-lost among her 

seas i 
There rang her voice, when the full city 

peal'd 
Thee and thy Prince ! The loyal to their 

crown 
Are loyal to their own far sons, who love 
Our ocean-empire with her boundless homes 
Forever-broadening England, and her throne 
In our vast Orient, and one isle, one isle, 
That knows not her own greatness : if she 

knows 
And dreads it we are fall'n. But thou, 

my Queen, 
Not for itself, but thro' thy living love 
For one to whom I made it o'er his grave 
Sacred, accept this old imperfect tale, 
New-old, and shadowing Sense at war with 

Soul 
Rather than that gray king, whose name, a 

ghost 
Streams like a cloud, man-shaped, from 

mountain peak. 
And cleaves to cairn and cromlech still : or 

him 
Of Geoffrey's book, or him of Malleor's, one 
Touch'd by the adulterous finger of a time 



That hover'd between war and wantonness. 
And crownings and dethronements : take 

withal 
Thy poet's blessing, and his trust that 

Heaven 
Will blow the tempest in the distance back 
From thine and ours : for some are scared, 

who mark. 
Or wisely or unwisely, signs of storm. 
Waverings of every vane with every wind, 
And wordy trucklings to the transient hour, 
And fierce or careless looseners of the faith. 
And Softness breeding scorn of sini) !e life. 
Or Cowardice, the child of lust lor gold. 
Or Labor, with a groan and not a voice, 
Or Art, with poisonous honey slol'n from 

France, 
And that which knows, but careful for itself. 
And that which knows not, ruling that 

which knows 
To its own harm : the goal of this great 

world 
Lies beyond sight : yet — if our slowly-grovu 
And crown'd Kepublic's crowning common- 
sense. 
That saved her many times, not fail — their 

fears 
Are morning shadows huger than the shapes 
That cast them, not those gloomier which 

forego 
The darkness of that battle in the West, 
Where all of high and holy dies away. 



A WELCOME TO THE DUKE AND DUCHESS 
OF EDINBURGH. 

March, 1874. 



The Son of him with whom we strove for 
power — 
Whose will is lord thro' all his world- 
domain — 
Who made the serf a man, and burst his 
chain — 
Has given our Prince his own Imperial 
Flower, 

Alexandrovna. 
And welcome, Russian flower, a people's 
pride. 
To Britain, when her flowers begin to blow 1 
From love to love, from home to home you 
go, 
From mother unto mother, stately bride, 

Marie- Alexandrovna. 



The golden news along the steppes is blown. 
And at thy name the Tartar tents are 

stirred ; 
Elburz and all the Caucasus have heard; 



And all the sultry palms of India known, 

Alexandrovna. 
The voices of our universal sea. 

On capes of Afric as on cliffs of Kent, 
The Maoris and that Isle of Continent, 
And loyal pines of Canada murmur thee, 

M arie-Aiexandrovna I 



Fair empires branching, both, in lusty life ! — 
Yet Harold's England fell to Norman 

swords ; 
Yet thine own land has bow'd to Tartar 
hordes 
Since English Harold gave its throne a wife, 
Alexandrovna I 
For thrones and peoples are as waifs that 
swing. 
And float or fall, in endless ebb and flow ; 
But who love best have best the grace to 
know 
That Love by right divine is deathless king, 
Marie- Alexandrovna ! 



I 



THE VOICE AND THE PEAK. 



33« 



And Love has led thee to the stranger 
land, 
Where men are bold and strongly say their 

say ; — 
See, empire upon empire smiles to-day, 
As thou with thy young lover hand in hand, 
Alexandrovna ! 
So now thy fuller life is in the West, 
Whose hand at home was gracious to thy 

poor: 
Thy name was blest within the narrow 
door ; 
Here also, Marie, shall thy name be blest, 
Marie-Alexandrovna ! 



Shall fears and jealous hatreds flame again ? 
Or at thy coming, Princess, everywhere. 
The blue heaven break, and some diviner 
air 
Breathe thro' the world and change the 
hearts of men, 

Alexandrovna ? 
But hearts that change not, love that cannot 
cease. 
And peace be yours, the peace of soul in 

soul ! 
And howsoever this wild world may roil. 
Between your peoples truth and manful peace, 
Alfred — Alexandrovna ! 



MISCELLANEOUS 



IN THE GARDEN AT SWAINSTON. 

Nightingales warbled without, 
Within was weeping for thee : 
Shadows 01 three dead men | 

Walk'd in the walks with lue, ! 

Shadows of three dead men, and thou wast 
one of the three. 

Nightingales sang in his woods : I 

The Master was far away : 
Nightingales warbled and sang 
Of a passion that lasts but a day ; 
Still in the house in his coffin the Prince of 
courtesy lay. ! 

Two dead men have I known 
In courtesy like to thee : j 

Two dead men have I loved 
With a love that ever will be : 
Three dead men have I loved, and thou arf 
last of the three. 



THE VOICE AND THE PEAK. 

Thk voice and the Peak 
Far over summit and lawn. 
The lone glow and long roar 
Green-rushing from the rosy thrones of dawn ! 

All night have I heard the voice 
Rave over the rocky bar. 
But thou wert silent in heaven. 
Above thee glided the star. 



Hast thou no voice, O Peak, 
That standest high above all ? 
" I am the voice of the Peak, 
I roar and rave for I fall. 

" A thousand voices go 
To North, South, East, and West ; 
They leave the heights and are troubled, 
And moan and sink to their rest. 

" The fields are fair beside them. 

The chestnut towers in his bloom ; 

But they — they feel the desire of the deep — 

Fall, and follow their doom. 

" The deep has power on the height, 
And the height has power on the deep ; 
They are raised for ever and ever, 
And sink again into sleep." 

Not raised for ever and ever, 

But when their cycle is o'er. 

The valley, the voice, the peak, the star, 

Pass, and are found no more. 

I The Peak is high and flush'd 
At his highest with sunrise fire ; 
The peak is high, and the stars are high, 
And the thought of a man is higher. 

A voice below the voice. 
And a height beyond the height ! 
Our hearing is not hearing, 
And our seeing is not sight. 

The voice and the Peak 
Far into heaven withdrawn. 
The lone glow and the long roar 
Green-rushing from the rosy thrones of dawn 1 



QUEEN MARY. 



DRAMATIS PERSONiE. 

Queen Mary. 

Philip {King of Naples and Sicily, afterwards King of Spam). 

The Princess Elizabeth. 

Reginald Pole (Cardinal and Papal Legate). 

Simon Renard {^Spanish Ambassador). 

Le Sieur de Noailles (French Ambassador) 

Thomas Cranmer (Archbishop of Canterbury). 

Sir Nicholas Heath (Archbishop of York ; Lord Chancellor after Gardiner). 

Edward Courthnay (Earl of Devon). 

Lord William Howard (afterwards Lord Howard a?id Lord High Admiral) 

Lord Williams of Thame. 

Lord Paget. 

Lord Petre. 

Stephen Gardiner (Bishop of Winchester and Lord Chancellor). 

Edmund Bonner (Bishop of London). 

Thomas Thirlby (Bishop of Ely). 

Sir Thomas Wyatt (,, .. r j \ 

Sir Thomas Stafford j ^''^urrectionary Leaders). 

Sir Ralph Bagenhall. 

Sir Robert Southwell. 

Sir Henry Bedingfield. 

Sir William Cecil. 

Sir Thomas White (Lord Mayor of London). 

The Duke of Alva ) / . . .. „, .,.^« 

The Count de Feria P''"^"'''"^'"' ^'^'''•^)- 

Peter Martyr. 

Father Cole. 

Father Bourne. 

Villa Garcia. 

Soto. 

Captain Brett ) / ^ jt . , ,,, .^. 

Antony Knvvett ( ^A<i^^ents of Wyatt). 

Peters (Gentleman of Lord Howard). 

Roger (Servant to Noailles). 

William (Servant to Wyatt). 

Steward of Household to the Princess Elizabeth. 

Old Nokes and Nokes. 

Marchioness of Exeter (Mother of Co7trtenay). 

Lady Clarence ) 

Lady Magdalen Dacres J [Ladies in waiting to the Queen). 

Alice ) 

Maid of Honor to the Princess Elizabeth. 

Tib \i'^''''o Cojintry Wives). 

Lords and other Attendants, Members of the Privy Council, Members of Parlia- 
ment, two Geniletnen, Aldermen, Citizens, Peasants, Ushers, Messengers, Guards^ 
Pages. <S^c 



QUEEN MARY. 



333 



ACT I. 



SCENE I. — ALDGATE RICHLY 

DECORATED. 

Crowd. Marshalmen. 

Marshalman. Stand back, keep a clear 
lane. When will her Majesty pass, sayst 
thou? why now, even now ; wherefore draw 
back your heads and your horns before I 
break them, and make what noise you will 
with your tongues, so it be not treason. Long 
live Queen Mary, the lawful and legitimate 
daughter of Harry the Eighth. Shout, 
knave.'! ! 

Citizens. Long live Queen Mary ! 

First Citizen. That 's a hard word, legiti- 
mate ; what does it mean ? 

Second Citizen. 1 1 means a bastard. 

Third Citizen. Nay, it means true-bom. 

First Citizen. Why, did n't the Parlia- 
ment make her a bastard ? 

Second Citizen. No ; it was the Lady 
Elizabeth. 

Third Citizen. That was after, man ; that 
was after. 

First Citizen. Then which is the bas- 
tard? 

Second Citizen. Troth, they be both bas- 
tards by Act of Parliament and Council. 

Third Citizen. Ay, the Parliament can 
make every true-born man of us a bastard. 
Old Nokes, can't it make tliee a bastard? 
Jhou shouldst know, for thou art as white as 
three Christmasses. 

Old Nokr-s {dreamily). Who 's a-passing ? 
King Edward or King Richard? 

Third Citizen. No, old Nokes. 

Old Nokes. It 's Harry ! 

Third Citizen. It 's Queen Mary. 

Old Nokes. The blessed Mary 's a-pass- 
ing ! [Falls on his knees. 

Nokes. Let father alone, my masters ! he's 
past your questioning. 

Third Citizen. Answer thou for him, 
then ! thou art no such cockerel thyself, for 
thou was born i' the tail end of old Harry 
the Seventh. 

Nokes. Eh ! that was afore bastard-mak- 
ing began. I was born true inan at five in 
the forenoon i' the tail of old Harry, and so 
they can't make me a bastard. 

Third Citize7i. But if Parliament can 
make the Queen a bastard, why, it follows 
all the more that they can make thee one, 
, who art fray'd i' the knees, and out at elbow, 
and bald o' the back, and bursten at the 
toes, and down at heels. 

Nokes. I was born of a true man and a 
ring'd wife, and I can't argue upon it ; but 
I and my old woman 'ud burn upon it, that 
would we. 

Mnrshahnan. What are you C3ckling of 
bastardy under the Queen's own nose ? I '11 
have you flogg'd and burnt too, by the Rood 
I will! 



First Citizen. He swears by the Rood. 
Whew ! 
Second Citizen. Hark ! the trumpets. 
[ The Procession passes, Mary and 
Elizabeth riding side by side, and 
disappears under the gate. 
Citizens. Long live Queen Mary ! down 
with all traitors ! God save Her Grace ; and 
death to Northumberland ! \_Exeunt. 

Manent two Gentlemen. 

First Gentleman. By God's light a noble 
creature, right royal. 

Second Gentletnan. She looks comelier 
than ordinary to-day ; but to my mind the 
Lady Elizabeth is the more noble and royal. 

First Gentleman. I mean the Lady Eliza- 
beth. Did you hear (I have a daughter in 
her service who reported it) that she met the 
Queen at Wanstead with five hundred horse, 
and the Queen (tho' some say they be much 
divided) took her hand, call'd her sweet sis- 
ter, and kiss'd not her alone, but all the 
ladies of her following. 

Second Gentleman. Ay, that was in her 
hour of joy, there will be plenty to sunder 
and unsister them again ; this Gardiner for 
one, who is to be made Lord Chancellor, 
and will pounce like a wild beast out of his 
cage to worry Cranraer. 

First Gentleman. And furthermore, my 
daughter said that when there rose a talk 
of the late rebellion, she spoke even of Nor- 
thumberland pitifully, and of the good Lady 
Jane as a poor innocent child who had but 
obeyed her father ; and furthermore, she 
said that no one in her time should be burnt 
for heresy. 

Second Gentleman. Well, sir, I look for 
happy times. 

First Gentleman. There is but one thing 
against them. I know not if you know. 

Second Gentleman. I suppose you touch 
upon the rumor that Charles, the master of 
the world, has offer'd her his son Philip, 
the Pope and the Devil. I trust it is but a 
rumor. 

First Gentlcinan. She is going now to 
the Tower to loose the prisoners there, and 
among them Couvtenay, to be made Earl of 
Devon, of royal blood, of splendid feature, 
whom the council and all her people wir,h 
her to marry. May it be so, for we are 
many of us Catholics, but few Papists, and 
the Hot Gospellers will go mad upon it. 

Second Gentleman. Was she not be- 
troth'd in her babyhood to the Great Em- 
peror himself? 

First Gejitleman. Ay, but he 's too old. 

Second Gentleman. And again to her 
cousin Reginald Pole, now Cardinal, but I 
hear that he too is full of aches and broken 
before his day. 

First Gentleman. O, the Pope could dis- 
pense with his Cardinalate, and his achage, 
and his breakage, if that were all : but will 
you not follow the procession ? 



334 



QUEEN MARY. 



Second Gentleman. No; I have seen 
enough for this day. 

First Ge7itlemaii. Well, I shall follow: 
if I can get near enougli I shall judge with 
my own eyes whether Her Grace incline to 
this splendid scion of Plantagenet. 

\_Exeunt. 

SCENE II. - A ROOM IN LAMBETH 
PALACE. 

Cranmer. To .Strasburg, Antwerp, Frank- 
fort, Zurich, Worms, 
Geneva, Basle — our Bishops from their sees 
Or fied, they say, or flying — Poinet, Bar- 
low, 
Bale, Scory, Coverdale ; besides the Deans 
Of Christchurch, Durham, Exeter, and 

Wells — 
Ailmer and Bullingham, and hundreds more; 
So they report : I shall be left alone- 
No : Hooper, Ridley, Latimer will not fly. 
Enter Peter Martyr. 
Peter Martyr. Fly, Cranmer ! were there 
nothing else, your name 
Stands first of those who sign'd the Letters 

Patent 
That gave her royal crown to Lady Jane. 
Cran}uer. Stand first it may, but it was 
written last : 
Those that are now her Privy Council, sign'd 
Before me : nay, the Judges had pronounced 
That our young Edward might bequeath the 

crown 
Of England, putting by his father's will. 
Yet I stocd out, till Edward sent for me. 
The wan boy-king, with his fast-fading eyes 
Fixt hard on mine, his frail transparent hand. 
Damp with the sweat of death, and griping 

mine, 
Whisper'd me, if I loved him, not to yield 
His Church of England to the Papal wolf 
And Mary : then I could no more — I sign'd. 
Nay, for hare shame of inconsistency, 
She cannot pass her traitor council by, 
To make me headless. 

Peter liliirtyr. I'liat might be forgiven. 
I tell you, fly, my Lord. You do not own 
The bodily presence in the Eucharist, 
Their wafer and perpetual sacrifice : 
Your creed will be your death. 

_ Cratnncr. Step after step, 

Thro' many voices crying right and left. 
Have I clinib'd back into the primal church. 
And stand within the porch, and Christ with 

me : 
My flight were such a scandal to the faith, 
The downfall of so many simple soul.s, 
I "dare not leave my post. 

Peter Martyr. But you divorced 

Queen Catharine and her father ; hence, her 

hate 
Will burn till you are burn'd. 

C}-anmer. I cannot help it. 

The Canonists and Schoolmen were with 
me. 



"Thou shalt not wed thy brother's wife." -~ 

'T is written, 
" They shall be childless." True, Mary 

was born. 
But France would not accept her for a bride 
As being born from incest ; and this wrought 
Upon the king; and child by child, you know. 
Were momentary sparkles out as quick 
Almost as kindled ; and he brought his doubts 
And fears to me. Peter, I '11 swear for him 
He (//<y believe the bond incestuous. 
But wherefore am I tienching on the time 
That should already have seen your steps a 

mile 
From me and Lambeth ? God be with vou ! 
Go. 
Peter Martyr. Ah, but how fierce a letter 
you wrote against 
Their superstition when they slander'd you 
For setting up a mass at Canterbury 
To please the Queen. 

Cranmer. It was a wheedling monk 

Set up the mass. 

Peter Mai'tyr. I know it, my good Lord. 
But yciu so bubbled over %vith hot terms 
Of Satan, liars, blasphemy, Antichrist, 
She never will forgive you. Fly, my Lord, fly I 
Cranmer. I wrote it, and God grant me 

power to burn ! 
Peter Martyr. They have given me a safft 
conduct : for all that 
I dare not stay. I fear, I fear, I see you. 
Dear friend, for the last time ; farewell, and 
fly. 
Cranjner. Fly and farewell, and let me 
die the death. 

{Exit Peter Martyr. 
Enter Oi.r> Servant. 
Old Servant. O, kind and gentle master, 
the Queen's Officers 
Are here in force to take you to the Tower. 
Cranmer. Ay, gentle friend, admit them. 
I will go. 
I thank my God it is too late to fly. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE III. — ST. PAUL'S CROSS. 

Father 'BovntiR in the pulpit. A crotud. 
Marchioness of Exeter, Courtenay. 
The Sieur de Noailles a7td his man 
Roger in front of the stage. Hubbub. 

Noailles. Hast thou let fall those papers 

in the palace ? 
Roger. Ay, sir. 

Noailles. " There will be no peace for 
Mary till Elizabeth lose her head." 
Roger. Ay, sir. 

Noailles. And the other. " Long live 
Elizabeth the Queen." 
Roger. Ay, sir ; she needs must tread 

upon them 
Noailles. _ Well. 

These bea.stly swine make such a grunting 

here, 
I cannot catch what father Bourne is saying 



QUEEN MARY. 



333 



Roger. Quiet a moiiient, my masters; hear 
what the sliavehng has to say for himself. 
Crowd. Hus!i — hear. 
Bourne. — and so this unhappy land, long 
I divided in itself, and sever'd from the faith, 
' will return into the one true fold, seeing that 
our gracious Virgin (jueen hath — 
Crowd. No pope ! no pope ! 
Roger \to those about him, 7nijnkking 
Bourne). — hath sent for the holy legate of 
the holy father the Pope, Cardinal Pole, to 
give us all that holy absolution which — 
First Citizeji. Old P)Curne to the life ! 
Second Citizen. Holy absolution 1 holy 

Inquisition ! 
Third Citizen. Down with the Papist. 

iHublmb. 
E^'irne. — and now that your good bishop, 
Bonner, who hath lain so long under bonds 
for the faith — [Hubbub. 

Noadles. Friend Roger, steal thou in 
among the crowd, 
And get the swine to shout Elizabeth. 
Yon gray old Gospeller, sour as midwinter, 
Begin with him. 

Roger (goes). By the mass, old friend, 
we '11 have no pope here while the Lady 
Elizabeth lives. 

Gospeller. Art thou of the true faith, fel- 
low, that swearest by the mass ? 

Roger. Ay, that am I, new converted, but 
the old leaven sticks to my tongue yet. 

First Citizen. He says right ; by the mass 
we '11 have no mass here. 

Voices of the Crowd. Peace ! hear him ; 
let his own words damn the Papist. From 
thine own mouth I judge thee — tear him 
down. 

Bourne. — and since our Gracious Queen, 
let me call her our second Virgin Mary, hath 
begun to re-edify the true temple — 

First Citizen. Virgin Mary ! we '11 have 
no virgins here — we '11 have the Lady Eliz- 
abeth ! 
t \_Swords are drawn, a k7iife is hurled, 

a7id sticks in the f>ul/>it. The niob 
throng to the pidpit stairs. 
Marchioness of Exeter. Son Courtenay, 
wilt thou see the holy father 
Murder'd before thy face ? up, son, and save 

him I 
They love thee, and thou canst not come to 
harm. 
Courtenay (in the pulpit). Shame, shame, 
my masters ! are you English-born, 
And set yourselves by hundreds against one ? 
Crowd. A Courtenay ! a Courtenay ! 
[A train of Spanish servants crosses at 
the back of the stage. 
NoaiUes. These birds of passage come 
before their time : 
Slave off the crowd upon the Spaniard there. 
Roger. My masters, yonder 's fatter game 
for you 
Than this old gaping gurgoyle : look you 
there — 



The Prince of Spain coming to wed our 

Queen ! 
After him, boys ! and pelt him from the city. 

[ They seize stones and follow the Span- 
iards. E-xeunt on the other side 
Marchioness of Exeter a?td At- 
tendants. 

NoaiUes (to Roger). Stand from me. If 
Elizabeth lose her head — 
That makes for France. 
And if her people, anger'd thereupon. 
Arise against her and dethrone the Queen — 
That makes for France. 
And if I breed confusion anyway — 
That makes for France. 

Good day, my Lord of Devon ; 
A bold heart yours to beard that raging mob ' 
Courtenay. My mother said, Go up ; and 
up I went. 
I knew they would not do me any wrong. 
For I am mighty popular with them, No- 
aiUes. 
NoaiUes. You look'd a king. 
Courtenay. Why not? 1 am king's blood. 
NoaiUes. And in the whirl of change may 

come to be one. 
Courtenay. Ah ! 
NoaiUes. But does your gracious Queen 

entreat you king-like? 
Courtenay. 'Fore God, I think she en- 
treats me like a child. 
NoaiUes. You 've but a dull life in this 
maiden court, 
I fear, iny Lord. 

Court-nay. A life of nods and yawns. 
NoaiUes, So you would honor my poor 
liouse to-night. 
We might enliven you. Divers honest fel- 
lows, 
The Duke of Suffolk lately freed from prison. 
Sir Peter Carew and Sir Thomas Wyatt, 
Sir Thomas Stafford, and some more — we 
play. 
Courtetiay. At what ? 
NoaiUes. The Game of Chess. 

Courtenay. The Game of Chess I 

1 can play well, and I shall beat you there. 
NoaiUes. Ay, but we play with Henry, 
King of France, 
And certain of his court. 
His Higliness makes his moves across the 

channel. 
We answer him with ours, and there are 

messengers 
That go between us. 

Courtenay. Why, such a game, sir, were 

whole years a playing. 
NoaiUes. Nay ; not so long I trust. That 
all depends 
Upon the skill and swiftness of the players. 
Courtenay. The King is skilful at it ? 
NoaiUes. Very, my Lord. 

Courtenay. And the Stakes high ? 
NoaiUes. But not beyond your means. 
Courtenay. Well, I 'm the first of players. 
I shall win. 



336 



QUEEN MARY. 



Noailles. With our advice and iu our 
company. 
And so you well attend to the king's moves, 
I think you may. 
Courteftiiy. When do you meet? 

Noailles. To-night. 

Courtenay {aside) I will be there ; the 
fellow 's at his tricks — 
Deep — I shall fathom him. {Aloud.) Good- 
morning, Noailles. 

VExit CoURTENAY. 

Noailles. Good-day, my Lord. Strange 

game of chess ! a King 
That with her own pawns plays against a 

Queen, 
Whose play is all to find herself a King. 
Ay ; but this fine blue-blooded Courtenay 

seems 
Too princely for a pawn. Call him a Knight, 
That, with an ass's not an horse's head, 
Skips every way, from levity or from fear. 
Well, we shall use him somehow, so that 

Gardiner 
And Simon Uenard spy not out our game 
Too early. Roger, thiukest thou that any 

one 
Suspected thee to be my inan ? 
Roger. Not one, sir. 

Noailles. No ! the disguise was perfect. 

Let 's away ! \_Exeii>it. 



SCENE IV. — LONDON. A ROOM 
IN THE PALACE. 
Elizabeth. £'?/2',?r Courtenay. 
Co^irteiiay. So yet am I, 
Unless my friends and mirrors lie to me, 
A goodlier-looking fellow than this Philip. 
Pah! 
The Queen is ill advised : shall I turn 

traitor? 
They 've aliiiost talk'd me into : yet the word 
Affrights me somewhat ; to be such a one 
As Harry Bolingbroke hath a lure in it. 
Good now, my Lady Queen, tho' by your 

age. 
And by your looks you are not worth the 

having. 
Yet by your crown you are. 

\_Seeing- Elizabeth. 

The Princess there? 

If I tried her and la — she 's amorous. 

Have we not heard of her in Edward's time. 

Her freaks and frolics with the late Lord 

Admiral ? 
[ do believe she 'd yield. I shonld be still 
A party in the state ; and then, who knows — 
Elizabeth. What are you musing on, my 

Lord of Devon ? 
Courtenay. Has not the Queen — 
Elizabeth. Done what. Sir? 

Courtenay. — Made you follow 

The Ladv Suffolk and the Lady Lennox. 
You, 

The heir presumptive. 
Elizabeth. Why do you ask ? you know it. 



Courtenay. You needs must bear it hardly. 
Elizabeth. No, indeed ! 

I am utterly submissive to the Queen. 

Courtenay. Well, I was musing upon that ; 
the Queen 
Is both my foe and yours : we should be 
friends. 
Elizabeth. My Lord, the hatred of an- 
other to us 
Is no true bond of friendship. 

Courtenay. Might it not 

Be the rough preface of some closer bond? 
Elizabeth. My Lord, you late were loosed 
from out the Tower, 
Where, like a butterfly in a chrysalis. 
You spent your life ; that broken, out you 

flutter 
Thro' the new world, go zigzag, now would 

settle 
Upon this flower, now that ; but all things 

here 
At court are known ; you have solicited 
The Queen, and been rejected. 

Courtenay. Flower, she ! 

Half failed ! but you, cousin, are fresh and 

sweet 
As the first flower no bee has ever tried. 
Elizabeth. Are you the bee to try me? 
why, but now 
I called you butterfly. 

Courtenay. You did me wrong, 

I love not to be called a butterfly : 
Why do you call me butterfly ? 

Elizabeth. Why do you go so gay then? 

Courtenay. Velvet and gold. 

This dress was made me as the Earl of 

Devon 
To take my seat in ; looks it not right royal? 
Elizabeth. So royal that the Queen for- 
bade you wearing it. 
Courtenay. I wear it then to spite her. 
Elizabeth. My Lord, my Lord ; 

I see you in the Tower again. Her Majesty 
Hears you affect the Prince — prelates kneel 
to you. — 
Courtenay. I am the noblest blood in 
Europe, Madam, 
A Courtenay of Devon, and her cousin 
Elizabeth. She hears you make your boast 
that after all 
She means to wed you. Folly, my good 
Lord. 
Courte/tay. How folly ? a great party in 
the state 
Wills me to wed her. 

Elizabeth. Failing her, my Lord, 

Doth not as great a party in the state 
Will you to wed me? 

Courtenay. Even so, fair lady. 

Elizabeth. You know to flatter ladies. 
Courtenay. Nay, I meant 

True matters of the heart. 

Elizabeth. My heart, my Lord, 

Is no great party in the state as yet. 

Courtenay. Great, said you r nay, you 
shall be great. I love you. 
Lay my life in your hands. Can you be close ? 



QUEEN MARY. 



337 



EKzabeth. Can you, my Lord ? 
Courienay. Close as a miser's casket. 
Listen : 

The King of France, Noailles the Ambassa- 
dor, 
The Duke of Suffolk and Sir Peter Carew, 
Sir Thomas Wyalt, I myself, some others, 
Have svvorii this Spanish marriage sliall not 

be. 
If Mary will not hear us — well — conjec- 
ture — 
Were I in Devon with my wedded bride. 
The people there so worship me — Your 

ear : 
You shall be Queen. 

Elizabeth. You speak too low, my Lord ; 
I cannot hear you. 

Courtenay. I '11 repeat it. 

Elizabeth. No ! 

Stand farther off, or you may lose your 
head. 
Courtenay. I have a head to lose for your 

sweet sake. 
Elizabeth. Have you, my Lord.' Best 
keep it for your own. 
Nay, pout not, cousin. 
Not many friends are mine, except indeed 
Among the many- I believe you n)iiie ; 
And so you may continue mine, farewell, 
And that at once. 

Enter Mah'S', behind, 
^fary. Whispering — leagued together 
To bar me from my Philip. 

Courtenay. Pray — consider — 

Elizabeth (seeing the Queen). Well, 
that 's a noble horse of yours, my 
Lord. 
I trust that he will carry you well to-day, 
And heal your headache. 

Co7irienay. You are wild ; what head- 
ache? 
Heartache, perchance ; not headache. 
Elizabeth {aside to Courtenay). Are 
you blind .' 

[Courtenay sees the Qvkfm and e.rit. 

Exit Mary. 
Enter Lord William Howard. 
Howard. Was that my Lord of Devon ? 
do not you 
Be seen in corners with my Lord of Devon. 
He hath fallen out of favor with the Queen. 
She fears the Lords may side with you and 

him 
Against her marriage ; therefore is he dan- 
gerous. 
And if this Prince of fluff and feather come 
To woo you, niece, he is dangerous every 
way. 
Elizabeth. Not very dangerous that way, 

my good uncle. 
Howard. But your own state is full of 
danger here. 
The disaffected, heretics, reformers, 
Look to you as the one to crown their ends. 
Mix not yourself with any plot I prav you ; 
Nay, if by chance you hear of any such. 



Speak not thereof — no, not to your best 

friend. 
Lest vou should be confounded with it. 

Still — 
Perinde ac cadaver — as the priest says. 
You know your Latin — quiet as a dead 

body. 
What was my Lord of Devon telling you ? 
Elizabeth. Whether he told nie any thing 
or not, 
I follow your good counsel, gracious uncle. 
Quiet as a dead body. 

Howard. You do right well. 

I do not care to know ; but this I charge 

you. 
Tell Courtenay nothing. The Lord Chan- 
cellor 
(I count it as a kind of virtue in him. 
He hath not many), as a mastiff dog 
May love a puppy cur for no more reason 
Than that the twain have been tied up to- 
gether. 
Thus Gardiner — for the two were fellow- 
prisoners 
So many years in yon accursed Tower — 
Hath taken to this Courtenay. Look to it, 

niece. 
He hath no fence when Gardiner questions 

him ; 
All oozes out ; yet him — because they know 

him 
The last White Rose, the last Plantagenet 
(Nay, there is Cardinal Pole, too), the peo- 
ple 
Claim as their natural leader — ay, some 

say. 

That you shall marry him, make him King 

belike. 

Elizabeth. Do tliey say so, good uncle ? 

Howard. Ay, good niece I 

You should be plain and open with me, 

niece. 
You should not play upon me. 
Elizabeth- No, good uncle. 

Enter Gardiner. 
Gardiner. The Queen would see your 

Grace upon the moment. 
Elizabeth. Why, my lord Bishop? 
Gardiner. I think she means to counsel 
your withdrawing 
To Ashridge, or some other country house. 
Elizabeth. Why, my lord Bishop ? 
Gardiner. I do but bring the message, 
know no more. 
Your Grace will hear her reasons from her- 
self 
Elizabeth. 'Tis mine own wish fulfill'd 
before the word 
Was spoken, for in truth I had meant to 

crave 
Permission of her Highness to retire 
To .Ashridge, and pursue my studies there. 
Garditier. Madam, to have the wish be- 
fore the word 
Is man's good Fairy — and the (^\\te.-R is 

yours. 
I left her with rich jewels in her hand, 



33? 



QUEEN MARY. 



Whereof 't is like enough she means to 

make. 
A farewell present to your Grace. 

Elizabeth. My Lord, 

I have the jewel of a loyal heart. 

Gardiner. I doubt it not, Madam, most 

loyal. [Bows lovj and exit. 

Howard- See, 
This comes of parleying with my Lord of 

Devon. 
Well, well, you must obey ; and I myself 
Believe it will be better for your welfare. 
Your time will come. 

Elizabeth. I think my time will come. 

Uncle, 

I am of sovereign nature, that I know. 
Not to be queil'd ; and I have felt within 

me 
Stirrings of some great doom when God's 

just hour 
Peals — but this fierce old Gardiner — his 

big baldness. 
That irritable forelock which he rubs. 
His buzzard beak and deep-incavern'd 

eyes 
Half fright mo. 

Howard. You 've a bold heart ; keep it so. 
He cannot touch you save that you turn 

traitor : 
And so take heed I pray you — you are one 
Who love that men should smile upon you, 

niece. 
They 'd smile you into treason — some of 

them. 
Elizabeth. I spy the rock beneath the 

smiling sea. 
But if this Philip, the proud Catholic 

prince, 
And this bald priest, and she that hates me, 

seek 
In that lone house, to practise on my life, 
By poison, fire, shot, stab — 

Howard. They will not, niece. 

Mine is the fleet and all the power at sea — 
Or will be in a moment. If they dared 
To harm you, I would blow this Philip and 

all 
Your trouble to the dogstar and the devil. 
Elizabeth. To the Pleiads, uncle ; they 

have lost a sister. 
Howard. But why say that? what have 

you done to lose her? 
Come, come, I will go with you to the 

Queen. [Exeunt. 

SCENE v. — A ROOM IN THE 
PALACE. 

Mary with Philip's miniature. Alicr. 
Mary {kissing the miniature). Most 
goodly. Kinglike, and an emperor's 
son, — 
A king to be, — is he not noble, girl ? 
Alice. Goodly enough, your Grace, and 
yet, methinks, 
I have seen goodlier. 
Mary. Ay ; some waxen doll 



Thy baby eyes have rested on, belike ; 

All red and white, the fashion of our land. 
j But my good mother came (God rest her 
soul) 

Of Spain, and I am Spanish in myself. 

And in my likings. 

A lice. By your Grace's leave 

Your royal mother came of Spain, but took 

To the English red and white. Your royal 
father 

(For so they say) was all pure lily and rose 

In his youth, and like a lady. 
Mary. O, just God I 

Sweet mother, you had time and cause 
enough 

To sicken of his lilies and his roses. 

Cast off, betray'd, defamed, divorced, for- 
lorn ! 

And then the king — that traitor past for- 
giveness. 

The false archbishop fawning on him, mar- 
ried 

The mother of Elizabeth — a heretic 

Ev'n as she is ; but God hath sent me here 

To take such order with all heretics 

That it shall be, before I die, as tho' 

My father and my brother had not lived. 

What wast thou saying of this Lady Jane, 

Now in the Tower ? 
Alice. Why, Madam, she was passing 

Some chapel down in Essex, and with her 

Lady Anne Wharton, and the Lady Anne 

Bow'd to the Pyx ; but Lady Jane stood up 

Stiff as the very backbone of heresy. 

And wherefore bow ye not, says Lady Anne, 

To him within there who made Heaven and 
Earth? 

I cannot and I dare not, tell your Grace 

What Lady Jane replied. 
Mary. But I will liave it. 

A lice- She said — pray pardon me, and 
pity her — 

She hath hearken'd evil counsel — ah ! she 
said, 

The baker made him. 

Mary. Monstrous! blasphemous I 

She ought to burn. Hence, thou ! (Exit 
Alice.) No — being traitor 

Her head will fall: shall it? she is but a 
child. 

We do not kill the child for doing that 

His father whipt him into doing — a head 

So full of grace and beauty ! would that rnin* 

Were half as gracious ! O, my lord to be, 

My love, for thy sake only. 

I am eleven years older than he is. 

But will he care for that ? 

No, by the holy Virgin, being noble. 

But love me only : then the bastard sprout. 

My sister, is far fairer than myself 

Will he be drawn to her ? 

No, being of the true faith with myself. 

Paget is for him — for to wed with Spain 

Would treble England — Gardiner is against 
him ; 

The Council, people, Parliament against 
him ; 



QUEEN MARY. 



339 



But I will have him 1 My hard father hated 

me : 
My brother rather hated me than loved ; 
My sister cowers and hates me. Holy Virgin, 
Plead with thy blessed Son ; grant me my 

prayer ; 
Give nie my Philip ; and we two will lead 
The living waters of the Faith again 
Bacic thro' their widow'd channel here, and 

watch 
The parch'd banks rolling incense, as of old. 
To heaven, and kindled with the pahns of 

Christ ! 

Ettter Usher. 

Who waits, siri* 

Usiier. Madam, the Lord Chancellor. 

Mary. Bid him come in. {Enter G.ardi- 
NER.) Good-morning, my good Lord. 
[Exit Usher. 
Gardiner. That every morning of your 
Majesty 
May be most good, is every morning's prayer 
Ofyour most loyal subject, Stephen Gardiner. 
Mary. Come you to tell me this, my Lord ? 
Gardiner. And more. 

Your people have begun to learn your worth. 
Your pious wish to pay King Edward's debts. 
Your lavish household curb'd, and the re- 
mission 
Of half that subsidy levied on the people. 
Make all tongues praise and all hearts beat 

for you. 
I 'd have you yet more loved : the realm is 

poor, 
The exchequer at neap-ebb : we might with- 
draw 
Part of our gaiTison at Calais. 

Mary. Calais ! 

Our one point on the main, the gate of 

France ! 
I am Queen of England ; take mine eyes, 

mine heart, 
But do not lose me Calais. 

Gardiner. Do not fear it. 

Of that hereafter. I say your Grace is loved. 
That I may keep you thu.s, who am your 

friend 
And ever faithful counsellor, might I speak? 
Mary. I can forespeak your speaking. 
Would I marry 
Prince Philip, if all England hate him? 

That is 
Your question, and I front it with another : 
Is it England, or a party? Now, your an- 
swer. 
Gardiner. My answer is, I wear beneath 
my dress 
A shirt of mail : my house hath been as- 
saulted, 
And when I walk abroad, the populace. 
With fingers pointed like so many daggers. 
Stab me in fancy, hissing Spain and Philip ; 
And when I sleep, a hundred men-at-arms 
Guard my poor dreams for England. Men 

would murder me, 
Because they think me favorer of this mar- 
. riage. 



Mary. And that were hard upon you, my 

Lord Chancellor. 
Gardiner. But our young Earl of Devon — 
Mary. Earl of Devon ? 

I freed him from the Tower, placed him at 

Court ; 
I made him Earl of Devon, and — the fool — 
He wrecks his health and wealth on cour- 
tesans, 
And rolls himself in carrion like a dog. 
Gardiner. More like a school-boy that 
hath broken bounds. 
Sickening himself with sweets. 

Mary. I will not hear of him. 

Good, then, they will revolt : but I am Tudor, 
And shall control them. 

Gardiner. I will help you. Madam, 

Even to the utmost. All the church is 

grateful. 
You have ousted the mock priest, repulpited 
The shepherd of St. Peter, raised the rood 

again. 
And brought us back the mass. I am all 

thanks 
To God and to your Grace : yet I know well. 
Your people, and 1 go with them so far, 
Will brook nor Pope nor Spaniard here to 

The tyrant, or in commonwealth or church. 

Mary {showing the picture). Is this the 

face of one who plays the tyrant ? 

Peruse it ; is it not goodly, ay, and gentle? 

Gardiner. ISLidam, methinks a cold face 

and a haughty. 

And when your Highness talks of Courte- 

nay — 
Ay, true — a goodly one. I would his life 
Were half as goodly {aside). 

Mary. What is that you mutter? 

Gardiner. Oh, Madam, take it bluntly ; 
marry Philip, 
And be step-mother of a score of sons ! 
The prince is known in Spain, in Flanders, 

ha! 
For Philip — 

Mary. You offend us ; you may leave us. 
You see thro' warping glasses. 

Gardiner. If your Majesty — 

Mary. I have sworn upon the body and 
blood of Christ 
I '11 none but Philip. 

Gardiner. Hath your Grace so sworn ! 
Mary. Ay, Simon Renard knows it. 
Gardijier. News to me 1 

It then remains for your poor Gardiner, 
So you still care to trust him somewhat less 
Than Simon Renard, to compose the event 
In some such form as least may harm you) 
Grace. 
Mary. I '11 have the scandal sounded to 
the mud. 
I know it a scandal. 

Gardiner. All my hope is now 

It may be found a scandal. 
Mary. You offend us 

Gardiner {aside). These princes are likt 
children, must be physick'd. 



340 



QUEEN MARY. 



The bitter in the sweet. I have lost mine 

office, 
It may be, thro' mine honestj', like a fool. 
\_Exit. 
Enler Usher. 
Mary. Who waits ? 
Usher. The Ambassador from France, 

your Grace. 
Mary. Bid him come in. Good-morning, 
Sir de Noailles. \,Exit Usher. 

Noailles (entering). A happy morning to 

your Majesty. 
Mary. And I should some time have a 
happy morning ; 
I have had none yet. What says the King 
your master ? 
Noailles. Madam, my master hears with 
much alarm, 
That you may marry Philip, Prince of 

Spain — 
Foreseeing, with vvhate'er unwillingness, 
That if this Philip be the titular king 
Of England, and at war with him, your Grace 
And kingdom will be suck'd into the war, 
Ay, the' you long for peace ; wherefore, my 

master. 
If but to prove your Majesty's good will. 
Would fain have some fresh treaty drawn 
between you. 
Mary. Why some fresh treaty ? wherefore 
should I do it? 
Sir, if we marry, we shall still maintain 
All former treaties with his Majesty. 
Our royal word for that ! and your good 

master. 
Pray God he do not be the first to break them, 
Must be content with that ; and so, farewell. 
Noailles (going, returns). I would your 
answer had been other. Madam, 
For I foresee dark days. 

Mary. And so do I, sir ; 

Your master works against me in the dark. 
I do believe he holp Northumberland 
Against me. 

Noailles. Nay, pure fantasy, your Grace. 
Why should he move against you? 

Mary. Will you hear why? 

Mary of Scotland, — for I have not own'd 
My sister, and I vkill not, — after me 
Is heir of England ; and my royal father, 
To make the crown of Scotland one with ours. 
Had mark'd her for my brother Edward's 

bride ; 
Ay, but your king stole her a babe from 

Scotland 
In order to betroth her to your Dauphin. 
See then : 

Mary of Scotland, married to your Dauphin, 
Would make our England, France ; 
Mary of England, joining hands with Spain, 
Would be too strong for France. 
Yea, were there issue born to her, Spain and 

we. 
One crown, might rule the world. There 

lies your fear. 
That is your drift- Vou play at hide and seek. 
Show me your faces 1 



Noailles. Madam, I am amazed : 

French, I must needs wish all good things 

for France. 
That must be pardon'd me ; but I protest 
Your Grace's policy hath a farther flight 
Than mine into the future. We but seek 
Some settled ground for peace to stand upon. 
Mary. Well, we will leave all this, sir, to 
our council. 
Have you seen Philip ever ? 
Noailles. Only once. 

Mary. Is this like Philip? 
Noailles. Ay, but nobler-looking. 

Mary^ Hath he the large ability of the 

Emperor? 
Noailles. No, surely. 
Mary. I can make allowance for thee, 
Thou speakest of the enemy of thy king. 
Noailles. Make rio allowance for the 
naked truth. 
He is every way a lesser man than Cliarles; 
Stone-hard, ice-cold — no dash of daring in 
him. 
Mary. If cold, his life is pure. 
Noailles. Why (smiling), no, indeed. 

Mary. Sayst thou ? 
Noailles- A very wanton life indeed 

(stniling). 
Mary. Your audience is concluded, sir. 
[Exit Noailles. 
You cannot 
Learn a man's nature from his natural (oe. 

Enter Usher. 
Who waits? 

Usher. The ambassador of Spain, your 

Grace. [E.vit. 

Enter Simon Renard. 

Mary. Thou art ever welcome, Simon 

Renard. Hast thou 

Brought me the letter which thine Emperor 

promised 
Long since, a formal offer of the hand of 
Philip? 
Renard. Nay, your Grace, it hath not 
reach'd me. 
I know not wherefore — some mischance of 

flood, 
And broken bridge, or spavin'd horse, or 

wave 
And wind at their old battle ; he must have 
written. 
Mary. But Philip never writes me one 
poor word. 
Which in his absence had been all my wealth. 
Strange in a wooer ! 

Renard Yet I know the Princ-;, 

So your king-parliament suffer him to land. 
Yearns to set foot upon your island shore. _ 
Mary. God change the pebble which his 
kingly foot 
First presses into some more costly stone 
Than ever blinded eye. 1 '11 have one mark it 
And bring it me. I '11 have it burnish'd 

firelike : 
I '11 set it round with gold, with pearl, with 
diamond. 



QUEEN MARY. 



34» 



Let the great angel of the church come with 

him ; 
Stand on the deck and spread his wings for 

sail ! 
God lay the waves and strew the storms at 

sea, 
And here at land among the people. O 

Renard, 
I am much beset, I am almost in despair. 
Paget is ours. Gardiner perchance is ours; 
But for our heretic Parliament — 

Renard. O Madam, 

Vou fly your thoughts like kites. My master, 

Charles, 
Bade you go softly with your heretics here. 
Until your throne had ceased to tremble. 

Then 
Spit them like larks for aught I care. Be- 
sides, 
When Henry broke the carcass of your 

church 
I'o pieces, there were many wolves among you 
Who dragg'd the scatter'd limbs into their 

den. 
The Pope would have you make them render 

these ; 
.So would your cousin. Cardinal Pole ; ill 

counsel ! 
These let them keep at present ; stir not yet 
Tliis matter of the Church lands. At his 

coming 
Your star will rise. 

Mary. My star ! a baleful one. 

1 Mje but tlie black night, and hear the wolf 
What star? 
Renard. Your star will be your princely 

son. 
Heir of this England and the Netherlands ! 
And if your wolf the while should howl for 

more 
We '11 dust him from a bag of .Spanish gold. 
\ do believe, I have dusted some already, 
That, soon or late, your parliament is ours. 
Mary. Why do they talk so foully of 

your Prince, 
Renard? 

Renard. The lot of princes. To sit high 
Is to be lied about. 

^fary. They call him cold. 

Haughty, ay, worse. 

Renard. Why, do.ubtless, Philip shows 
Some of the bearing of your blue blood — 

still 
All within measure — nay, it well becomes 

him. 
Mary. Hath he the large ability of his 

father ? 
Renard. Nay, some believe that he will 

go beyond him. 
Mary. Is this like him? 
Renard. Ay, somewhat ; but your Philip 
Is the most princelike Prince beneath the 

sun. 
This is a daub to Philip. 

Mary. Of a pure life? 

Renard. As an angel among angels. 

Yea, by Heaven, 



The text — Your Highness knows it, " Who- 
soever 
Looketh after a woman," would not graze 
The Prince of Spain. You are happy iu 

him there, 
Chaste as your Grace ! 
Mary, I am happy in him there. 

Renard. And would be altogether happy, 

Madam, 
So that your sister were but look'd to closer. 
You have sent her from the court, but then 

she goes, 
I warrant, not to hear the nightingales, 
But hatch you some new treason in the 

woods. 
Mary. We have our spies abroad to catch 

her tripping. 
And then if caught, to the Tower. 

Renard. The Tower ! the block. 

The word has turn'd your Highness pale ; 

the thing 
Was no such scarecrow in your father's time. 
I have heard, the tongue yet qui ver'd with the 

jest 
When the head leapt — so common ! I do 

think 
To save your crown that it must come to this. 
Mary. I love her not, but all the people 

love her. 
And would not have her even to the Tower 
Re/iard. Not yet ; but your old Traitors 

of the Tower — 
Why, when you put Northumberland to 

death. 
The sentence having past upon them all. 
Spared you the Duke of Suffolk, Guildford 

Dudley, 
Ev'n that young girl who dared to wear your 

crown ? 
Mary. Dared, no, not that ; the child 

obey'd her father. 
Spite of her tears her father forced it on her. 
Renard. Good Madam, when the Roman 

wish'd to reign, 
He slew not him alone who wore the purple. 
But his assessor in the throne, perchance 
A child more innocent than Lady Jane. 
I^fary. I am English Queen, not Roman 

Emperor. 
Renard. Yet too much mercy is a want 

of mercy, 
And wastes more life. Stamp out the fire, 

or this 
Will smoulder and re-flame, and burn the 

throne 
Where you should sit with Philip : he will 

not come 
Till she be gone. 

Mary. Indeed, if that were true — 

But I must say farewell. I am somewhat 

faint 
With our long talk. Tho' Queen, I am not 

Queen 
Of mine own heart, which every now and then 
Beats me half dead : yet stay, this golden 

chain — 
My father on a birthday gave it m«. 



34a 



QUEEN MARY. 



And I have broken with my father — take 
And wear it as memorial ot a morning 
Which lound me iuil of foolish doubts, and 

leaves me 
As hopeful. 

Renaid {aside). Whew— the folly of all 

lollies 
Is to be love-sick for a shadow. {Aloud) 

Madam, 
This chains me to your service, not with gold. 
But dearest links' of love. Farewell, and 

trust me, 
Philip is yours. [Exit. 

Mary. Mine — but not yet all mine. 

Enter Usher. 
Usher. Your Council is in Session, please 

your Majesty. 
Mary. Sir, let them sit. I must have 

tune to breathe. 
No, say I come. {Exit Usher.) I won by 

boldness once. 
The Emperor counseli'd me to fly to Flan- 
ders. 
1 would not ; but a hundred miles 1 rode, 
Sent out my letters, call'd my friends to- 
gether. 
Struck home and won. 
And when the Council would not crown 

me — thought 
To bind me first by oaths I could not keep. 
And keep with Christ and conscience — was 

it boldness 
Or weakness that won there? when I their 

Queen, 
Cast myself down upon my knees before 

them. 
And those hard men brake into woman tears, 
Ev'n Gardiner, all amazed, and in that 

passion 
Gave me my Crown 

Enter Alice. 

Girl ; hast thou ever heard 

Slanders aeainst Prince Philip in our Court? 

Alice. What slanders? I, your Grace; 

no, never. 
Mary. Nothing? 

Alice- Never, your Grace. 
Mary. See that you neither hear them 

nor repeat ! 
Alice {aside) Good Lord ! but I have 
heard a ilmusaiid such. 
Av. and repeated iliem as often — mum !_ 
Whycomesthat old fox-Flemingback again? 
Enter Renard. 
Rennrd. Madam, I scarce had left your 
Grace's iircsence 
Before 1 chanced upon the messenger 
Who brings that letter which we waited for — 
I The formal offer of Prince Philip's hand. 
! It craves an instant answer. Ay or No? 

Mary. An instant. Ay or No ! the Coun- 
cil sits. 
Give it me quick. 
Alice {stepping before her). Your High- 
r«ss is all trembling. 



Mary. Make way. 

\_Exit into the Council Chamber. 

Alice. O, Master Kenard, Master Renard, 

If you have falsely painted your fine Prince ; 

Praised, where you should have blamed him, 

I pray God 
No woman ever love you. Master Renard. 
It breaks my heart to hear her moan at 

night 
As tho' the nightmare never left her bed. 
Renard. My pretty maiden, tell me, did 
you ever 
Sigh for a beard ? 
Alice. That 's not a pretty question. 

Re7iard. Not prettily put? I mean, my 
pretty maiden, 
A pretty man for such a pretty maiden. 

A lice. iNly Lord of Devon is a pretty man. 
I hate him. Well, but if 1 have, what then? 
Renard. Then, pretty maiden, you should 
know that whether 
A wind be warm or cold, it serves to fan 
A kindled fire. 

Alice. According to the song. 

" Hia friends would pnuise l;ini, I believed 'em, 
Mis loes would bianie him. and I scorned 'era, 
His friends — as Ang^rls I received 'ein, 
His foes — the Uevil had suborn'd 'em." 

Renard. Peace, pretty maiden. 
I hear them stirring in the Council Chamber. 
Lord Paget's "Ay" is sure — who else? 

and yet, 
They are all too much at odds to close at 

once 
In one full throated No ! Her Highness 
comes. 

Enter Marv. 
Alice. How deathly pale ! —a chair, your 
Highness. 

[Bringing- one to tlte Quekn. 
Renard. Madam, 

The Council? 

Mary. Ay ! My Philip is all mine. 

[Sinks into chair, half fainting. 



ACT II. 

SCENE I. — ALLINGTON CASTLE. 

Sir Thomas ll'yatt. I do not hear from 

Carew or the Duke 
Of Suffolk, and till then I should not move. 
The Duke hath gone to Leice.^ter ; Carew 

stirs 
In Devon : that fine porcelain Courtenay, 
Save that he fears he might be crack'd in 

using, 
(I have known a semi-madman in my time 
So fancy-ridd'n) should be in Devon too. 

Enter William. 
News abroad, William? 

IViliinm. None so new. Sir Thomas, and 
none so old. Sir Thomas. No new news 
that Philip comes to wed Mary, no old news 
that all men hate it. Old Sir Thomas would 



QUEEN MARY. 



us 



have hated it. The bells are ringing at 
Maidstone. Doesn't your worship hear? 

{■t^yatt. Ay, for the Saints are come to 
reign again. 
Most like it is a Saint's-day. There 's no call 
As yet for nie ; so in this pause, before 
I'he mine be fired, it were a pious work 
To string my lather's sonnets, left about 
Like loosely-scatter'd jewels, in fair order. 
And head them with a lamer rhyme of mine, 
To grace his memory. 

tVilliam. Ay, why not. Sir Thomas? He 
was a fine courtier, he ; Queen Anne loved 
him. All the won}en loved him. I loved 
nim, I was in Spain with him. I could n't 
eat in Spain, I could n't sleep in Spain. I 
hate Spain, Sir Thomas. 

Wyatt. But thou couidst drink in Spain 
if I remember. 

William. Sir Thomas, we inay grant the 
wine. Old Sir Thomas always granted the 
wine. 

Wyatt. Hand me the casket with my fa- 
ther's sonnets. 

William. Ay — sonnets — a fine courtier 
of the old Court, old Sir Thomas. \_Exit. 

Wyatt. Courtier of many courts, he loved 
the more 
His own gray towers, plain life and letter'd 

peace, 
To read and rhyme in solitary fields. 
The lark above, the nightingale below. 
And answer them in song. The Sire begets 
Not half his likeness in the son. 1 fail 
Where he was fullest : yet — to write it down. 
[He writes. 
Re-enter William. 

William. There is news, there is news, 
and no call for sonnet-sorting now, nor for 
sonnet-making either, but ten thousand men 
on Penenden Heath all calling after your 
worship, and your worship's name heard 
into Maidstone market, and your worship 
the first man in Kent and Christendom, for 
the world 's up, and your worship a-top of it. 

Hyatt. Inverted jEsop — mountain out 
of mouse. 
Say for ten thousand ten — and pothouse 

knaves, 
Brain-dizzied with a draught of morning ale. 
Enter Antony Knvvett. 

William. Here 's Antony Knyvett. 

Knyvett. Look you. Master Wyatt, 

Tear up that woman's work there. 

Wyatt. No ; not these. 

Dumb children of my father, that will speak 
When I and thou and all rebellions lie 
Dead bodies without voice. Song flies you 

know 
For ages. 

Knyvett. Tut, your sonnet 's a flying ant, 
Wine'd for a moment. 

Wyatt. Well, for mine own work, 

[ Tearing the paper. 
It lies there in six pieces at your feet ; 
For all that I can carry it in my head. 



Knyvett. If you can carry your head upon 

your shoulders. 
Wyatt. I fear you come to carry it off my 

shoulders, 
And sonnet-making 's safer. 

Knyvett. Why, good Lord, 

Write you as many sonnets as you will. 
Ay, but not now ; what, have you eyes, ears, 

brains ? 
This Philip and the black-faced swarms of 

Spain, 
The hardest, cruellest people in the world. 
Come locusting upon us, eat us up. 
Confiscate lands, goods, money — Wyatt, 

Wyatt, 
Wake, or the stout old island will become 
A rotten limb of Spain. They roar for you 
On Penenden Heath, a thousand of them — 

more — 
All arm'd, waiting a leader ; there 's no glor^ 
Like his who saves his country : and you sit 
Sing-songing here ; but, if 1 'ni any judge, 
By God, you are as poor a poet, Wyatt, 
As a good soldier. 

M'yatt. You as poor a critic 

As an honest friend : you stroke me on one 

cheek, 
Buffet the other. Come, you bluster, An- 
tony I 
You know I know all this. I must not move 
Until 1 hear from Carew and the Duke. 
I fear the mine is fired before the time. 
Knyvett {shoiving a fafier). But here's 

some Hebrew. Faith, 1 half forgot it. 
Look ; can you make it English ? A strange 

youth 
Suddenly thrust it on me, whisper'd, 

"Wyatt," 
And whisVang round a corner, show'd his 

back 
Before I read his face. 

Wyatt. Ha ! Courtenay's cipher. [Reads. 
" Sir Peter Carew fled to France : it is 
thought the Duke will be taken. 1 am with 
you still ; but, for appearance' sake, stay 
with the Queen. Gardiner knows, but the 
Council are all at odds, and the Queen hath 
no force for resistance. Move, il you move, 
at once." 

Is Peter Carew fled? Is the Duke taken? 
Down scabbard, and out sword ! and let 

Rebellion 
Roar till throne rock, and crown fall. No; 

not tliat ; 
But we will leach Queen Mary how to reign. 
Who are those that shout below there? 

Knyvett. Why, some fifty 

That iVillow'd me from Penenden Heath in 

hope 
To hear you speak. 

Wyatt. Open the window, Knyvett . 

The mine is fired, and I will speak to them' 

Men of Kent ; England of England ; yoit 
that have kept your old customs upright, 
while all the rest of England bow'd theirs 
to the Norman, the cause that hath brought 



344 



QUEEN MARY. 



us together is not the cause of a county or 
' a shire, but of tliis England, in whose crown 
our Kent is the fairest jewel. Philip shall 
not wed Mary ; and ye have called nie to be 
your leader. 1 know Spain. 1 have been 
therewith my father ; 1 have seen iheni in 
their own land : have marked the haughti- 
ness of their nobles, the cruelty of their 
jiriests. If this man marry our Queen, how- 
ever the Council and the Commons may 
fence round his power with restriction, he 
will be King, King of England, my masters ; 
and the Queen, and the laws, and the peo- 
ple, his slaves. What? shall we have Spain 
on the throne and in the parliament^ Spain 
in the pulpit and on the law-bench : Spain in 
;ill the great offices of state ; Spain in our 
ships, ill our forts, in our houses, in our beds ? 

Crowd. No ! no ! no Spain. 

H'dliam No Spain in our beds — that 
were worse than all. I have been there 
with old Sir Thomas, and the beds I know. 
i 1 hate Spain. 

A Feasant. But, Sir Thomas, must we 
levy war against the Queen's Grace? 

IVyatt. No, my friend ; war for tlie 
Queen's Grace — to save her from herself 
and Philip — war against Spain. And think 
not we shall be alone — thousands will flock 
to us. The Council, the Court itself, is on 
our side. The Lord Chancellor himself is 
on our side. The King of France is with 
us; the King of Denmark is with us; the 
world is with us — war against Spain ! And 
if we move not now, yet it will be known 
that we have moved ; and if Philip come to 
be King, O, my God ! the rope, the rack, the 
thuiTib- screw, the stake, tlie fire. If we move 
not now, Spain moves, bribesour nobles with 
her gold, and creeps, creeps snake-like about 
our legs till we cannot move at a'l ; and ye 
know, my ma.sters, that wherever Spain haLli 
ruled she hath wither'd all beneath her. 
Look at the New World — a i^aradise made 
hell ; the red man, that good helpless crea- 
ture, starved, maini'd, flogg'd, tlay'd, burn'd, 
boil'd, buried alive, worried by dogs ; and 
here, nearer home, the Netherlands, Sicily, 
Naples, Lombardy. I say no more — only 
this, their lot is yours. Forward to London 
with me I forward to London ! If ye love 
your liberties or your skins, forward to Lon- 
don ! 

Crowd. Forward to London I A Wyatt I 
a Wyatt ! 

IV'yatt. But first to Rochester, to take 
the guns 
From out the vessels lying in the river. 
Then on. 

A Peasant. Ay, but I fear we be too few. 
Sir Thomas. 

IVyatt. Not many yet. The world as yet, 
my friend. 
Is not half-waked ; but every parish tower 
Shall clang and clash alarum as we pass. 
And pour along the land, and swoH'n and 
fed 



With indraughts and side-currents, in full 

force 
Roll upon London. 

Crowd. A Wyatt ! a VVyatt ! Forward! 
K/tyvett. Wyatt, shall we proclaim Eliz- 
abeth ? 
IVyatt I '11 think upon it, Knyvett. 
Knyvett. Or Lady Jane? 

It-'yait. No, poor soul ; no. 
-Ah, gray old castle of .Mlington, green field 
Beside the brimming Medway, it may chance 
That I shall never look upon you more. 
Ktiyvett. Come, nosv, you 're sounetting 

again. 
Wyatt. Not I. 

I '11 have my head set higher in the state ; 
Or — if the Lord God will it — on the stake 
\.Exettnt. 

SCENE II. — GUILDHALL. 

Sir Thoihas White {The Lord Mayor"), 
Lord William Howard, Sir Ralph 
Bagenhall, Aldermen and Citizens 

White. I trust the Queen comes hither 

with her guards. 
Howard. .Ay, all in arms. 

[^Several of tlie Citizens tnove hastily out 
of the hall. 

Wliy do they hurry out there? 
White. My Lord, cut out the rotten from 
your apple. 
Your apple eats the better. Let them go. 
They go like those old Pharisees in John 
Convicted by their conscience, arrant cow- 
ards. 
Or tamperers with that treason out of Kent. 
When will her Grace be here ? 

Howard. In some few minules. 

She will address your guilds and companies. 
I have striven in vain to raise a man for her. 
But help her in this exigency, make 
Your city loyal, and be the mightiest man 
This day in England. 

White. I am Thomas White. 

Few things have fail'd to which I set my will. 
I do my most and best. 

Howard. You know that .ifier 

The Captain Brett, wlio went with your 

train bands 
To fight with Wyatt, had gone over to him 
With all his men, the Queen in that distress 
Sent Cornwallis and Hastings to the traitor, 
Feigning to treat with him about her mar- 
riage — 
Know too what Wyatt said. 

White- He 'd sooner be, 

While this same marriage question was be- 
ing argued. 
Trusted than trust — the scoundrel — and 

demanded 
Possession of her person and the Tower. 
Howard. And four of her poor Council 
too, my Lord, 
As hostages. 

White. I know it. What do and say 

Your Council at this hour? 



QUEEN MARY. 



Howard. I will trust you. 

We fling ourselves on you, my Lord. The 

Council, 
The parliament as well, are troubled waters ; 
And yet like waters of the fen they know 

not 
Which way to flow. All hangs on her address, 
And upon you. Lord Mayor. 

Il'/titc- How look'd the city 

When now you past it ? Quiet.' 

Howard. Like our Council, 

Vuur city is divided. As we past, 
Some hail'd, some hiss'd ns. There were 

citizens 
Stood each before his shut-up booth, and 

look'd 
As grim and grave as from a funeral. 
And here a knot of ruffians all in rags, 
With execrating execrable eyes. 
Glared at the citizen. Here was a young 

mother, 
Herface on flame, her red hair all blown back. 
She shrilling " Wyatt," while the boy she held 
Mimick'd and piped her " Wyatt," as red as 

she 
In hair and cheek ; and almost elbowing her, 
So close they stood, another, mute as death, 
And white as her own milk ; her babe inarms 
Had felt the faltering of his mother's heart, 
And look'd as bloodless. Here a pious 

Catholic, 
Mumbling and mixing up in his scared 

prayers 
Heaven and earth's Maries ; over his bow'd 

shoulder 
ScowI'd that world-hated and world-hating 

beast, 

A haggard Anabaptist Many such groups. 
The names of Wyatt, Elizabeth, Courtenay, 
Nay the Queen's right to reign — 'fore God, 

the rogues — 
Were freely buzz'd among them. So I sa}^ 
Your city is divided, and I fear 
One scruple, this or tli.it way, of success 
Would turn it thither. Wherefore now the 

Queen 
In this low pulse and palsy of the state. 
Bade me to tell you that she counts on you 
And on myself as her two hands ; on you. 
In your own city, as her right, my Lord, 
For you are loyal. 

White. Am I Thomas White ? 

One word before she comes. Elizabeth — 
Her name is much abused among these 

traitors. 
VVhere is she ? She is loved by all of us. 
I scarce have heart to mingle in this matter. 
If she should be mishandled? 

Howard. No ; she shall not. 

The Queen had written her word to come 

to court. 
Methought I smelt out Renard in the letter. 
And fearing tor her, sent a secret missive. 
Which told her to be sick. Happily or not. 
It found her sick indeed. 

White. God send her well ; 

Here comes her Royal Grace. 



Enter Guards, M.\ry, ana CiARrjiNER. Sl« 
Thomas White leads her to a raised seat 
en the dais 
White. I, the Lord Mayor, and these our 

companies 
Andguildsof London, gathered here,beseech 
Your Highness to accept our lowliest thanks 
For your most princely presence ; and we i 

pray ■ 

That we, your true and loyal citizens. 
From your own royal lips, at once may know 
The wherefore of this coming, and so learn 
Your Royal will, and do it. — I, Lord Mayor 
Of London, and our Guilds and Companies. 
Mary. In mine own person am 1 come to 

you, 
To tell you what indeed ye see and know. 
How traitorously these rebels out of Kent 
Have made strong head against ourselves 

and you. 
They would not have me wed the Prince of 

Spain ; 
That was their pretext — so they spake at 

tirst — 
But we sent divers of our Council to them, 
And by their answers to the question ask'd, 
It doth appear this marriage is the least 
Of all their quarrel. 
They have betrayed the treason of their 

hearts : 
Seek to possess our person, hold our Tower, 
Place and displace our councillors, and use 
Both us and them according as they will. 
Now what am I ye know right well — your 

Queen, 
To whom, when I was wedded to the realm 
And the realm's laws (the spousal ring 

whereof 
Not ever to be laid aside, I wear 
Upon this finger), ye did promise full 
Allegiance and obedience to the death. 
Ye know my father was the rightful heir 
Of England, and his right came down to me, 
Corroborate by yonr acts of Parliament : 
And as ye were most loving unto him, 
So doubtless will ye show yourselves to me. 
Wherefore, ye will not brook that any one 
Should seize our person, occupy our state. 
More specially a traitor so presumptuous 
As this same Wyatt, who hath tamper'd with 
A public ignorance, and, under color 
Of such a cause as hath no color, seeks 
To bend the laws to his own will, and yield 
Full scope to persons rascal and forlorn, 
To make free spoil and havoc of your goods. 
Now as your Prince, I say, 
I, that was never mother, cannot tell 
How mothers love their children ; yet, me- 

thinks, 
A prince as naturally may love his people 
As these their children ; and be sure your 

Queen 
So loves you, and so loving, needs must deem 
This love by you return'd as heartily ; 
And thro' this common knot and bond of love. 
Doubt not they will be speedily overihrown. 
As to this marriage, ye shall understand 



346 



QUEEN MARY. 



We made thereto no treaty of ourselves, 
And set no foot theretoward unadvised 
Of all our Privy Council ; furthermore, 
This marriage had theassent of those towhom 
'I'lie king, my father, did commit his trust; 
Who not alone esteem'd it honorable, 
But for the wealth and glory of our realm, 
And all our loving subjects, most expedient. 
As to myself, 

I am not so set on wedlock as to choose 
But where I list, nor yet so amorous 
That I must needs be husbanded ; I thank 

God, 
I have lived a virgin, and I noway doubt 
But that with God's grace, 1 can live so still. 
Yet if it might please God that I should leave 
Some fruit of mine own body alter me. 
To be your king, ye would rejoice thereat, 
And it would be your comfort, as I trust ; 
And truly, if I eiiher thought or knew 
This marriage should bring loss or danger to 

you, 
My subjects, or impair in any way 
This royal state of England, I would never 
Consent thereto, nor marry while 1 live ; 
Moreover, if this marriage should not seem, 
Before our own high Court of Parliament, 
To be of rich advantage to our realm. 
We will refrain, and not alone from this. 
Likewise from any other, out of which 
Looms the least cliaiice of peril to our realm. 
Wherefore be bold, and with your lawful 

Prince 
Stand fast against our enemies and yours, 
And fear them not. I fear them not. My 

Lord, 
I leave Lord William Howard in your city, 
To guard and keep you whole and safe from 

all 
The spoil and sackage aim'd at by these 

rebels, 
Who mouth and foam against the Prince of 

Spain. 
Voices. Long live Queen Mary ! 

Down with Wyatt ! 

The Queen ! 
White. Three voices from our guilds and 

companies ! 
You are shy and proud like EngIishtn»T», my 

masters, 
And will not trust your voices. U'>^rFtand : 
Your lawful Prince hath come t«> ««3st her- 
self 
On loyal hearts and bosoms, hr>r>e'i to fall 
Into the widespread arms nf '«=^lty, 
And finds you statues. Speak at once — 

and all ! 
For whom ? 

Our sovereign Lady by King Harry's will : 
The Queen of England — or the Kentish 

Squire? 
I know you loyal. Speak ! in the name of 

God! 
The Queen of England or the rabble of Kent ? 
The reeking dungfork master of the mace ! 
Your havings wasted by the s'-yth and 

spade — 



Your rights and charters hobnail'd into 

slush — 
Your houses fired — your gutters bubbling 

blood — 
Acclamation. No! No! The Queen! 

the Queen ! 
White. Your Highness hears 

This burst and bass of loyal harmony. 
And how we each and all of us abhor 
The venomous, bestial, .devilish revolt 
Of Thomas Wyatt. Hear us now make oath 
To raise your Highness thirty thousand men, 
And arm and strike as with one hand, and 

brush 
This Wynit from our shoulders, like a flea 
That mi^'ht have leajt upon us unawares. 
Swear with me, noble fellow-cilizens, all, 
With all your trades, and guilds, and com- 
panies. 
Citizctis. We swear ! 
Mary. We thank your Lordship and your 

loyal city. [Exit Mary attended. 
White. I trust this day, thro' God, 1 have 

saved llie crown 
First Alder}iiaii. Ay, so my Lord of 

Pembroke in command 
Of all her force be safe ; but there are doubts. 
Second A Idcrtnan. 1 hear that Gardiner, 

coming with the Queen, 
And meeting Pembroke, bent to his saddle- 
bow. 
As if to win the man by flattering him. 
Is he so safe to fight upon her side ? 

Fir't Aldervian. If not, there's no man 

safe. 
ll-'hile. Yes, Thomas White. 
I an safe enough ; no man need flatter me. 
S<C0tid Alderman. Nay, no man need; 

but did you mark our Queen ? 
The color freely play'd into her face. 
And the half sight which makes her look so 

stern, 
Seem'd thro' that dim dilated world of hers. 
To read our faces ; I have never seen her 
So queenly or so goodly. 

White. Courage, sir. 

That makes or man or woman look their 

goodliest. 
Die like the torn fox dumb, but never whine 
Like that poor heart, Northumberland, at 

the block. 
Bagetihall. The man had children, and 

he whined for those. 
Methinks most men are but poor-hearted, 

else 
Should we so doat on courage, were it com- 
moner? 
The Queen stands up, and speaks for her 

own self; 
And all men cry, she is queenly, she is 

goodly. 
Yet she 's no goodlier ; tho' my Lord Mayor 

here, 
By his own rule, he hath been so bold to-day, 
Should look more goodly than the rest of us. 
White. Goodly? I feel most goodly heart 

and hand. 



QUEEN MARY. 



347 



And strong to throw fen Wyatts and all Kent. 
Ha ! ha ! sir ; but you jest ; 1 love it : a jest 
In time of danger shows the pulses even. 
Be merry ! yet, Sir Ralph, you look but sad. 
I dare avouch you 'd stand up for yourself, 
The' all the world should bay like winter 
wolves. 
Baseiihall. Who knows ? the man is proven 

by the hour. 
White. The man should make the hour, 
not this the man : 
And Tluimas White will prove this Thomas 

Wyatt, 
And he will prove an Iden to this Cade, 
And he will play the Walworth to this Wat ; 
Come, sirs we prate; lience all — gather 

your men ^ 
Myself must bustle. Wyatt comes to South- 
war k ; 
I '11 have the drawbridge hewn into the 

Thames, 

And see the citizen arm'd. Good day ; 

good day. {Exit White. 

Bagenluill. One of much outdoor bluster. 

Howard. For all that. 

Most honest, brave, and skilful ; and his 

wealth 
A fotintain of perennial alms — his fault 
So thoroughly to believe in his own self. 
Bagenhall. Yet thoroughly to believe in 
one's own self, 
So one's own self be thorough, were to do 
Great thin.gs, my lord. 
Howard. It may be. 

Bageiih.xll. I have heard 

One of your council fleer and jeer at him. 
How rrd. The nursery-cocker'd child will 
jeer at aught 
That may seem strange beyond his nursery. 
The statesman that shall jeer and fleer at 

men. 
Makes enemies for himself and for his king ; 
And if he jeer not seeing tlie true man 
Behind his folly, he is thrice the fool ; 
And if lie see the man and sti.l will jeer. 
He is child and fool, and traitor to the State. 
Who is he? Let me shun him. 

BagenhaH. Nay, my Lord, 

He is damn'd enough already. 

Howard. I must set 

The guard at Ludgate. Fare you well. Sir 

Ralph. 

Bageiihall. " Who knows ? " I am for 

England But who knows. 

That knows the Queen, the Spaniard, and 

the Pope, 
Whether I be for Wyatt, or the Queen? 

\_Exeuni. 

SCENE HI. — LONDON BRIDGE. 
Enter Stfe Thomas Wyatt and Brett. 
Wyatt. Brett, wlien the Duke of Norfolk 
moved against us 
Thou criedst " a Wyatt," and flying to our 

side 
Left his all bare, for which I love thee, Brett. 



Have for thine asking aught that I can give, 

For thro' thine help we are come to London 
Bridge ; 

But how to cross it balks me. I fear we can- 
not. 
Brett. Nay, hardly, save by boat, swim- 
ming, or wings. 
Wyatt. Last night I climb'd into the 
gatehouse, Brett, 

And scared the gray old porter and his wife. 

And then 1 crept along tlie gloom and saw 

They liad hewn the drawbridge down into 
the river. 

It roll'd as black as death ; and that same 
tide 

Which, coming with our coming, seem'd to 
smile 

And sparkle like our fortune as thou saidest. 

Ran sunless down, and moau'd against the 
piers. 

But o'er the cliasm I saw Lord William 
Howard 

By torchlight, and his guard ; four guns 
gaped at me. 

Black, silent nioutiis : had Howard spied 
nie there 

And made them speak, as well lie might 
have done. 

Their voice had left me none to tell you this. 

What shall we do? 
Brett. On somehow. To go back 

Were to lose all. 

Wyatt. On over London Bridge 

We cannot : stay we cannot ; there is ord- 
nance 

On the White Tower and on the Devil's 
Tower, 

And pointed full at Southvvark ; we must 
round 

By Kingston Bridge. 
Brett. Ten miles about. 

Wyatt. _ Ev'n SO. 

But I have notice from our partisans 

Within the city that they will stand by us 

If Ludgate can be reach'd by dawn to- 
morrow. 

Enter one of Wvatt's vicii. 
Man. Sir Thomas, I 've found this paper, 
pray your worship read it : I know not my 
letters ; the old priests taught me nothing. 

IVyatt (teads). " Whosoever will appre- 
hend the traitor Thomas Wyatt shall have a i 
hundred pounds for reward." 
Man. Is that it ? That 's a big lot of 

money. 
Wyatt. Ay, ay, my friend ; not read it ? 
't is not written 
Half plain enough. Give me a piece of 
paper ! 

[Writes "Thomas Wyatt" large. 
There, any man can read that. 

[Sticks it i?i his cnfi. 
Brett. But that 's foolhardy. 

Wyatt. No ! boldness, which will give my 
followers boldness. 
Enter Man with a priioner. 



348 



QUEEN MARY. 



Man- VVe found him, yoar worship, a 
plundering o' Bishop Winchester's house; 
he says lie 's a poor geutlenian. 

M'yatt. Gentleman, a thief! Go hang 
him. Shall we make 
Those that we come to serve our sharpest 
foes ? 
Brett. Sir Thomas — 
M'yatt. Hang him, I say. 

Brett. Wyatt, but now you promised me 

a boon. 
M'yatt. Ay, and I warrant this fine fel- 
low's life. 
Brett. Ev'n so : he was my neighbor 
once in Kent. 
He 's poor enough, has drunk and gambled 

out 
All that he had, and gentleman he was. 
We have been glad together ; let him live. 
Wyatt. He has gambled for his life, and 
lost, he hangs. 
No, no, my word 's my word. Take thy 

poor gentleman ! 
Gamble thyself at once out of my sight. 
Or I will dig thee with my dagger. Away ! 
Women and children ! 

Enter a Crowd of Wo.men ajid Children. 
First lVo7nan. O Sir Thomas, Sir Thom- 
as, pray you go away, Sir Thomas, or you '11 
make the White Tower a black 'nn for us 
this blessed day. He '11 be the death on us ; 
and you '11 set the Devil's Tower a-spitting, 
and he '11 smash all our bits o' things worse 
than Philip o' Spain. 

Second H^ojuan. Don't ye now go to 
think that we be for Philip n' Spain. 

'J'/iird II 'oDian. No, we know that ye be 
come to kill the Queen, and we '11 pray for 
you all on our bended kneci. But o' God's 
mercy don't ye kill the Queen here. Sir 
Thomas: look ve, here's little Dickon, and 
little Robin, and little Jenny — though she 's 
but a side-cousin — and all on our knees, we 
pray you to kill the Queen farther off, Sir 
Thomas. 

fVyati. My friends, T have not come to 
kill the' Queen 
Or here or there : I come to save you all. 
And I '11 go farther off. 

Cro7vd. Thanks. Sir Thomas, we be be- 
holden to you, and we '11 pray for you on 
our bended knees till our lives' end. 
ll-'yatt. Be happy, I am your friend. 

To Kingston, forward I 
]E.rei/ni. 

SCENF. IV —ROOM IN THE GATE- 
HOUSE OF WESTMINSTER PAL- 
ACE. 
Mary, Alice, Gardiner, Renard, La- 
dies. 
Alice- O madam, if Lord Pembroke should 

be false? 
Mary. No, girl ; most brave and loyal, 
brave and loyal. 
His breaking with Northumberland broke I 
Northumberland. ' 



At the park gate ue hovers with our guards. 
These Kentish ploughmen cannot break the 
guards. 

Enter Messenger. 

Messenger. Wyatt, your Grace, hath 
broken thro' the guards 
And gone to Ludgate. 

Gardiner. Madam, I much feal 

That all is lost ; but we can save your Grace 

The river still is free. I do beseech you. 

There yet is time, take boat and pass tr 

Windsor. 

Mary. I pass to Windsor and I lose mv 

crown. 
Gardiner. Pass, then, I pray your High- 
ness, to the Tower. 
Mary. I shall but be their prisoner in the 

Tower. 
Cries (without). I'he traitor ! treason I 

Pembroke ! 
Ladies. Treason ! treason ! 

Mary. Peace. 
False to Northumberland, is he false to me' 
Bear witness, Renard, that I live and die 
The true and faithful bride of Philip — > 

sound 
Of feet and voices thickening hither - 

blows — 
Hark, there is battle at the palace gates, 
And I will out upon the gallery. 
Ladies No, no, your Grace ; see therf 

the arrows Hying. 
Mary. I am Harry's daughter, Tudor 
and not tear. 

[Goes out on the gallery 
The guards are all driven in, skulk into cor- 
ners 
Like rabbits to their holes A gracious 

guard 
Truly ; shame on them, they have shut tht 
gates ! 

Enter Sir Robert Southwell. 

Southwell. The porter, please your Grace 
hath sh\it the eates 
On friend and foe. Your gentlemen-at-arms 
If this be not your Gr.ice's order, cry 
To have the gates set wide again, and they 
With their good battle-axes will do yoi! 

right 
Against all traitors 

Mary. They are the flower of England ; 
set the gates wide. 

[Exit Southwell. 
Enter Courtenav. 
Courtenay. k\\ lost, all lost, all yielded; 
a barge, a barge, 
The Queen must to the Tower. 

Mary. Whence come you, sir? 

Courtoiay. From Charing Cross ; th» 
rebels broke us there. 
And I sped hither with what haste I might 
To save my royal cousin. 

Mary. Where is Pembroke ? 

Courtenav I left liiin somewhere in the 
thick of it 



QUEEN MARY. 



Mary. Left him andfled ; and thou that 
wouldst be King, 
And bast nor heart nor honor. I myself 
Will down into the battle and there bide 
The upshot of my quarrel, or die with those 
That are no cowards and no Courtenays. 
Courtenay. I do not love your Grace 
should call me coward. 
Enter another Messengek. 
Messenger. Over, your Grace, all crush'd ; 
the brave Lord William 
Thrust him from Ludgate, and the traitor 

flying 
To Temple Bar, there by Sir Maurice Berke- 
ley _ j 
Was taken prisoner. 
Mary. To the Tower with him I 
Messenger. 'T is said he told Sir Maurice 
there was one j 
Cognizant of this, and party thereunto, | 
My Lord of Devon. 
Mary. To the Tower with hiju ! 
Courtenay. O la, the Tower, the Tower, ] 
always the Tower, j 
I shall grow into it — I shall be the Tower. 
Mary. Your Lordship may not have so 
long to wait. 
Remove him ! \ 

Courtenay. La, to whistle out my life, 
And carve my coat upon the walls again ! ' 
lExit Courtenay guarded- 
Messenger. Also this Wyatt did confess 
the Princess 
Cognizant thereof, and party thereunto. 
Mary. What ? whom — whom did you 

say? 
Messenger. Elizabeth, 
Your Royal sister. 

Maty. To the Tower with her! 

My foes are at my feet and I am Queen. 
^0!KRW:<^-Rand her 'Lavis.s kiieei to her. 
Gardiner (rising) There let them lie, 
your footstool ! {Aside.) Can I strike 
Elizabeth? — not now and save the life 
Of Devon : if I save him, he and his 
Are bound to me — may strike hereafter. 

(Aloud.) Madam, 
What Wyatt said, or what they said he 

said. 
Cries of the moment and the street — 

Mary. He said it. 

Gardiner. Your courts of justice will de- 
termine that. 
Renard (adzmnciti g). I trust by this 
your Highness will allow 
Some spice of wisdom in my telling you, 
When last we talk'd, that Philip would not 

come 
Till Guildford Dudley and the Duke of 

Suffolk 
And Lady Jane had left us. 
Mary. They shall die. 

Renard. And your so loving sister ? 
Mary. She shall die. 

My foes are at my feet, and Philip King. 

[Exeunt. 



ACT III. 



SCENE I.— THE CONDUIT IN 
GRACE-CHURCH, 

Painted with the Nine Worthies, among 
them King Henry l^J II. holding a book, 
on it inscribed ^'Verhtni Dei." 

Enter Sir R.^lph B.agenhall atid Sir 
Thomas Stafford. 
Bagenhall. A hundred here and hun- 
dreds liang'd in Kent. 
The tigress had unsheath'd her nails at last. 
And Renard and the Chancellor sharpen'd 

them. 
In every London street a gibbet stood. 
They are down to-day. Here by this house 

w as one ; 
The traitor husband dangled at the door. 
And when the traitor wife came out for 

bread 
To still the petty treason therewithin. 
Her cap would brush his heels. 

Stafford. It is Sir Ralph, 

And muttering to himself as heretofore. 
Sir, see you aught up yonder? 

Bagenhall. I miss something. 

The tree that only bears dead fruit is gone. 
Stafford. What tree, sir? 
Bagenhall. Well, the tree in Virgil, sir, 
That bears not its own apples. 

Stafford. What ! the gallows? 

Bagetthall. Sir, this dead fruit was ripen- 
ing overmuch. 
And had to be removed lest living Spain 
Should sicken at dead England. 

Stafford. Not so dead. 

But that a shock may rouse her. 

Bagenhall. I believe 

Sir Thomas Stafford ? 
j Stafford- I am ill disguised. 

Bagenhall. Well, are you not in peril 
1 here ? 

Stafford. I think so. 
I came to feel the pulse of England, whether 
It beats hard at this marriage. Did you 
see it ? 
Bagenhall. Stafford, I am a sad man and 
a serious. 
Far liefer had I in my country hall 
j Been reading some old book, with mine old 
j hound 

Couch'd at my hearth, and mine old flask of 
wine 
i Beside me, than have seen it, yet I saw it. 
Stafford. Good, was it splendid ? 
Bagenhall. Ay, if Dukes, and Earls, 

And Counts, and sixty Spanish cavaliers, 
, Some six or seven Bishops, diamonds, 
1 pearls, 

' That royal commonplace too, cloth of gold, 
Could make it so. 

Stafford. And what was Mary's dress? 
Bagenliall. Good faith, I was too sorry for 
the woman 
To mark the dress. She wore red shoes ! 



3SO 



QUEEN MARY. 



Strtffjrd. Red shoes ! 

Bageiikall. Scarlet, as if her leet were 
wash'd ill blood, 
As if she had waded m it. 

Stafford. Were your eyes 

Sobashfid ihat you look'd no higher? 

BagenlialL A diamond, 

And Phihp's gift, as proof of Philip's love. 
Who hath not any tor any, — iho' a true one, 
Blazed false upon her heart. 
Stijffo>d. But this proud Prince — 

BagenhtiU. Nay. he is King, you know, 
tlie King of Naples. 
The father ceded Naples, that the son 
Being a King, might wed a Queen — O he 
Flamed in brocade — white satin his trunk 

hose. 
Inwrought with silver, — on his neck a col- 
lar. 
Gold, thick with diamonds ; hanging down 

from this 
The Golden Fleece — and round his knee, 

misplaced. 
Our English Garter, studded with great em- 
eralds, 
Rubies, I know not what. Have you had 

enough 
Of all this gear? 

Stafford Ay, since you hate the telling it. 
How look'd the Queen? 

Bagenhatl. No fairer for her jewels 

And I could see that as the new-made couple 
Came from the Minster, moving side by side 
Beneath one canopy, ever and anon 
She cast on him a vassal smile of love, 
Which Philip with a glance of some distaste, 
Or so methnught, return'd. I may be 

wrong, sir. 
This marriage will not hold. 

Stafford. 1 think with you. 

The King of France will help to break it. 

BagenhaU France ! 

We once had half of France, and hurl'd our 

battles 
Into the heart of Spain ; but England now 
Is but a ball chuck"d between France and 

Spain 
His in whose hand she drops ; Harry of 

Bolingbroke 
Had hoi pen Richard's tottering throne to 

stand. 
Could Harry have foreseen that all our no- 
bles 
Would perish on the civil slaughter-field, 
And leave the people naked to the crown, 
And the crown naked to the people ; the 

crown 
Female, too ! Sir, no woman's regimen 
Can save us. We are fallen, and as I think, 
Never to rise again. 

Stafford. You are too black-blooded. 

I 'd make a move myself to hinder that : 
1 know some lusty fellows there in France. 
Bagenhall. You would but make us 
weaker, Thomas Stafford. 
Wyatt was a good soldier, yet he fail'd, 
And strengthen'd Philip. 



Stafford. Did not his last breath 

Clear Courtenay and the Princess from the 
charge 

Of being his co-rebels? 

Ba°;eiihaU. Ay, but then 

Wh..t s ch a one as Wyatt says is nothing : 

We have no men among us. The new 
Lords 

Are quieted with their sop of Abbeylands, 

And ev'n before the Queen's face Gardiner 
buys them 

With Philip's gold. All greed, no faith, no 
courage ! 

Why, ev'n the haughty prince, Northumber- 
land, 

The leader of our Reformation, knelt 

And blubber'd like a lad. and on the scaffold 

Recanted, and resold himself to Rome. 
Stafford. I swear you do your country 
wrong. Sir Ralph. 

I know a set of exiles over there, 

Dare-devils, that would eat fire and spit it 
out 

At Philip's beard : they pillage Spain al- 
ready. 

The French king winks at it. An hour will 
come 

When they will sweep her from the seas. 
No men ? 

Did not Lord Suffolk die like a true man? 

Is not Lord William Howard a true man? 

Yea, you yourself, altlio' you are black- 
blooded : 

And I, by God, believe myself a man. 

Ay, even in the church there is a man — 

Cranmer. 

Fly, would he not, when all men bade him fly. 

And what a letter he wrote against the Pope I 

There 's a brave man, if any. 

Bagenhall. Pl\ ; if it hold. 

Croivd (co)nitig en). God save their 

Graces I 
Stafford. Bagenhall, I see 

The Tudor green and white. {Trumpets.) 
They are coming now 

And here 's a crowd as thick as herring- 
shoals. 
Bagctikall. Be limpets to this pillar, or 
we are torn 

Down the strong wave of brawlers. 
Crowd. God save their Graces. 

[Procession of 'J'ruiiifieters. yavelin- 
jnen, etc.; then Spaiiishaiid Flemish 
Nobles ititer mingled. 

Stafford. Worth seeing, Bagenhall ! 
These hlack dog-Dons 
Garb themselves bravely. Who 's the long- 
face there, 
Looks very Spain of very Spain? 

Bagenhall. ' The Duke 

Of .Alva, an iron soldier. 

Stafford. And the Dutchman, 

Now laughing at some jest '• 

Bagenhall. William of Orange, 

William the Silent. 

Stafford. Why do they call him so ? 



QUEEN MARY. 



3St 



BagenhaU. He keeps, they say, some 
secret that may cost 
Philip his life. 
Stafford. But then he looks so merry. 
BagenhaU. I cannot tell you why they 
call him so. 
\_The King and Queen pass, attended 
by Feers of t/w J\eahn, Officers of 
State, etc. Cmuion shot off. 
Crowd. Philip and Mary.Philip and Mary. 
Long live the King and Queen, Philip and 
Mary. 
Stafford. They smile as if content with 

one another. 
BagenhaU. A smile abroad is oft a scowl 
at home. 
[King aud Qvv^k's fiass on- Procession. 
First Citizen. I thought this Philip had 
been one of those black devils of tjpam, but 
he hath a yellow beard. 

Second Citizen. Not red like Iscariot's. 
First Cit/zen- Like a carrot's, as ihou 
sayst, and English carrot 's better than 
Spanish licorice ; but I thought he was a 
beast. 

1 hird Citizen. Certain I had heard that 
every Spaniard carries a tail like a devil un- 
der his trunk hose. 

Tailor. Ay, but see what trunk hoses ! 
Lord ! they be fine ; 1 never stitch'd none 
such. They make amends for the tails. 

Fourth Citizen. I'ut ! every Spanish 
priest will tell you that all English heretics 
nave tails. 

Fifih Citizen. Death and the Devil — if 
he find I have one — 

Fourth Citizen Lo ! thou hast call'd 

them up ! here they come — a pale horse for 

Death and Gardiner for the Devil. 

Enter Gardiner, turning I ackfront the 

procession. 

Gardiner. Knave, wilt thou wear thy 

cap before the Queen ? 
Man. My Lord, I stand so squeezed 
among the crowd 
I cannot lift mv hands unto my head. 
Gardiner. Knock off his cap there, some 
of you about him ! 
See there be others that can use their hands. 
Thou art one of Wyatt's men ? 

Man. No, my Lord, no. 

Gardiner. Thy name, thou knave ! 
Man. 1 am nobody, my Lord, 

Gardiner [shouting). God's passion I 

knave, thy name ? 
Man. I have ears to hear. 

Gardiner. Ay, rascal, if I leave thee ears 
to hear. 
Find out his name and bring it me {to At- 
tendant) 
Attendant Ay, my Lord. 

Gardiner. Knave, thou shalt lose thine 
ears and find thy tongue. 
And shalt be thankful if I leave thee that. 

[Coming before the Conduit. 



The conduit painted — the nine worthies — 

ay ! 
But then what 's here ? King Harry with a 

scroll. 
Ha — Verbum Dei — verbum — word of 

God ! 
God's passion ! do you know the knave that 
painted it ? 
Attendiitit. I do, my Lord. 
Gardiner. 'fell him to paint it out, 

And put some fresh device in lieu of it — 
A pair of gloves, a pair of glove.s, sir ; ha? 
There is no heresy there. 

Attendant. I will, my Lord 

The man shall paint a pair of gloves. I am 

sure 
(Knowing the man) he wrought it ignorantly, 
And not from any malice. 

Gardiner. Word of God 

In English ! over this the brainless loons 
That cannot spell Esaias from .St. Paul, 
Make themselves drunk and mad, tly out 

and ilare 
Into rebellions. I '11 have their Bibles 

burnt. 
The Bible is the priest's. Ay ! fellow, what ! 
Stand staring at me ! shout, you gaping 
rogue- 
Man. I have, my Lord, shouted till I am 

hoarse. 
Gardiner. What hast thou shouted, 

knave ? 
Man- Long live Queen Mary. 

Gardiner. Knave, there be two. There 
be both King and Queen, 
Philip and Mary. Shout 

l\Iaji. Nay, but, my Lord, 

The Queen comes first, Mary and Philip. 

Gardiner. Shout, then, 

Mary and Philip. 

Man. Mary and Philip ! 

Gardiner. Now, 

Thou hast shouted for thy pleasure, shout 

*br mine ! 
Philip and Mary ! 
Man Must it be so, my Lord? 

Gardiner. Ay, knave. 
Man. Philip and Mary. 

Gardiner. I distrust thee. 

Thine is a half voice and a lean assent. 
What is thy name ? 

Mati. Sanders. 

Gardiner. What else ? 

Man. Zerubbabel. 

Gardiner. Where dost thou live ? 
Man. In Cornhill. 

Gardiner. Where, knave, where? 

Man. Sign of the Talbot. 
Gardiner. Come to me to-morrow. — 
Rascal ! — this land is like a hill of fire. 
One. crater opens when another shuts. 
Rut so I get the laws against the heretic. 
Spite of Lord Paget and Lord William 

Howard, 
And others of our Parliament, revived, 
I will show fire on my side — stake and 
fire — 



352 



QUEEN MARY. 



Sharp work and short. The knaves are 

easily cow'd. 
Follow their Majesties. 

{,Exit. The crowd following- 
Bagenhall. As proud as Becket. 

Stafford. You would not have him nuir- 

der'd as Becket was ? 
Bagenhall. No — murder fathers mur- 
der : but I say 
There is no man — there was one woman 

with us — 
It was a sin to love her married, dead 
I cannot choose but love her. 
S:afford. Lady Jane ? 

Crowd {going off). God save their 

Grace.s. 
Stafford. Did you see her die ? 
Biigenhall. No, no ; her innocent blood 
had blinded me. 
You call me too black-blooded — true 

enough 
Her dark dead blood is in my heart with mine. 
J( ever I cry out against the Pope 
Her dark dead blood that ever moves with 

mine 
Will stir the living tongue and make the 
cry. 
Siaffiyrd. Yet doubtless you can tell me 

how she died ? 
Bagenhall. Seventeen — and knew eight 
languages — in music 
Peerless — her needle perfect, and her learn- 
ing 
Beyond the churchmen ; yet so meek, so 

modest, 
So wife-like humble to the trivial boy 
Mlsmatch'd with her for policy ! I have heard 
She would not take a last farewell of hin\, 
She fear'd it might unman him for his end. 
She could not be unmann'd — no, nor out- 

woman'd — 
Seventeen — a rose of grace ! 
Girl never breathed to rival such a rose ; 
Rose never blew that equall'd such a bud. 
Stafford. Pray you go on. 
Bagenhall. She came upon the scaffold, 
And said she was condenin'd to die for trea- 
son ; 
She had but follow'd the device of those 
Her nearest kin : she thought they knew the 

laws. 
But for herself she knew but little law. 
And nothing of ihe titles to the crown ; 
She had no desire for that, and wrung her 

hands, 
And trusted God would save her thro' the 

blond 
(Jf Jesus Christ alone. 

Stafford. Pray you go on. 

Bagenhall. Then knelt and said the 
Miserere Mei — 
But all in English, mark you ; rose again, 
And, when the headsman pray'd to be for- 
given. 
Said, " You will give me my true crown at 

last, 
Bui do it quickly " ; then all wept but she, 



Who changed not color when she saw the 

block. 
But ask'd him, childlike : " Will you take it 

off 
Before I lay me down ? " " No, madam," 

he said, 
Gasping ; and when her innocent eyes were 

bound. 
She, with her poor blind hands feeling — 

"where is it? 
Where is it?" — You must fancy that which 

follow'd, 
If you have heart to do it ! 

Crowd {in the distance). God save their 

Graces ! 
Stafford. Their Graces, our disgraces ! 

God coiifour.d lliem ! 
Why, she 's grown bloodier ! when I last was 

here. 
This was against her conscience — would he 

murder ! 
Bagenhall The " Thou shall do no mur- 
der," whicli God's hand 
Wrote on her conscience, Mary rubb'd out 

pale — 
She could not make itwhile — andoverthat, 
Traced in the blackest text of Hell — " Thou 

shalt ! " 
And sign'd it — Mary ! 

Stafford. Philip and Ihe Pope 

Must have sign'd too. I hear this Legate 's 

coming 
To bring us absolution from the Pope. 
The Lords and Commons will bow down 

before him — 
You are of the house? what will vou do. Sir 

Ralph ? 
Bage?ihall. And why should I be bolder 

than the rest. 
Or honester than all ? 

Stafford. But, sir, if I — 

And over sea they say this stale of yours 
Hath no more mortise than a tower of cards; 
And that a puff Hould do it — then if I 
And others made that move I touch'd upon, 
Back'd by the power of France, and landing 

here. 
Came with a sudden splendor, shout, and 

show. 
And dazzled men and deafen'd by some bright 
Loud venture, and the people so unquiet — 
And I the race of murder'd Buckingliam — 
Not for myself, but for the kingdom — Sir, 
I trust that you would fight along with us. 
Bagenhall. No ; you would fling your 

lives into the gulf 
Stafford- But if this Philip, as he 's like 

to do, 
Left Mary a wife-widow here alone, 
Set up a viceroy, sent his myriads hither 
To seize upon the forts and fleet, and make us 
A Spanish province ; would you not fight 

then ? 
Bagenhall. I think I should fight then._ 
Stafford. I am sure of it. 

Hist I there's the face coming on here of 

one 



QUEEN MARY. 



353 



Who knows me. I must leave you. Fare 

you well, 
Vou '11 hear of me again. 
Bagenhall. Upon the scaffold. 

\_Exeuiit. 

SCENE II. — ROOM IN WHITE- 
HALL PALACE. 

Marv. Enter¥H\i.\vaiidChV.-D\ti\u Pole. 

Pole. Ave Mari.i, gratia plena, Benedicta 
tu in niulieribus. 

Mary- Loyal and royal cousin, humblest 
thanks. 
Had you a pleasant voyage up the river? 

Pole. We h.id your royal barge, and that 
same chair. 
Or rather throne of purple, on the deck. 
Our silver cross sparkled before the prow. 
The ripples twinkled at theirdiamond-dance, 
The boats that follow'd, were as glowing gay 
.A; regal gardens ; and your flocks of swans, 
.As lair and white as angels ; and your shores 
Wore in mine eyes the green of Paradise. 
My foreign friends, who dream'd us blanketed 
In ever-closing fog, were much amazed 
To find as fair a sun as might have flash'd 
Upon their Lake of Garda, fire the Thames ; 
Our voyage by sea was all but miracle ; 
And here the river flowing froin the sea. 
Not toward it (for they thought not of our 

tides), 
Seem'd as a happy miracle to make glide — 
In quiet — home your banish'd countryman. 

Mary. We heard that you were sick in 
Flanders, cousin. 

Pole. A dizziness. 

Miry ■ And how came you round again ? 

Pole. The scarlet thread of Rahab saved 
her life ; 
And mine, a little letting of the blood. 

Mary. Well ? now ? 

Pole, Ay, cousin, as the liealhen giant 
Had but to touch the ground, his force 

return'd — 
Thus, after twenty years of banishment, 
Feeling my native land beneath my foot, 
I said thereto : " Ah, native land of mine. 
Thou art much beholden to this foot of mine, 
That hastes with full commission from the 

Pope 
To absolve thee from thy guilt of heresy. 
Thou hast disgraced me and attainted me, 
And mark'd me ev'n as Cain, and I return 
As Peter, but toblessthee: make me well." 
Methinkstlie good land heard me, for to-day 
My heart beats twenty, when I see you, 

cousin. 
Ah, gentle cousin, since your Herod's death. 
How oft hath Peter knock'd at Mary's gate ! 
And Mary would have risen and let him in. 
But, Mary, there were those within the house 
Who would not have it. 

Mary. True, good cousin Pole ; 

And there were also those without the house 
Who would not have it. 

Pole. I believe so, cousin. 



State-policy and church-policy are conjoint, 
But Janus-faces looking diverse ways. 
I fear the Emperor much misvalued me. 
But all is well ; 'twas ev'n the will of God, 
Who, waiting till the time had ripen'd, now, 
Makes me his mouth of holy greeting. 

" Hail, 
Daughter of God, and saver of the faith, 
Sit benedictus fructus ventris tui ! " 
Mary. Ah, heaven ! 
Pole. Unwell, your Grace? 

Mary. No, cousin, happy ^ 

Happy to see you ; never yet so happy 
Since I was crown'd. 

Pole. Sweet cousin, you forget 

That long low minster where you gave your 

hand 
To this great Catholic King 

Philip Well said, Lord Legate. 

Mary. Nay, not well said ; I thought of 
you, my liege, 
Ev'n as I spoke. 

Philip. Ay, Madam ; my Lord Paget 

Waits to present our Council to the Legate. 
Sit down here, all ; Madam, between us you. 
Pole- Lo, now you are enclosed with 
boards of cedar, 
Our little sister of the Song of Songs ! 
You are doubly fenced and shielded sitting 

here 
Between the two most high-set thrones on 

earth. 
The Emperor's highness happily symboll'd 

by 
The King your husband, the Pope's Holi- 
ness 
By mine own self 

Mary. True, cousin, I am happy. 

When will you that we summon both our 

houses 
To take this absolution from your lips, 
And be regather'd to the Papal fold? 

Pole. In Britain's calendar the brightest 
day 
Beheld our rough forefathers break their 

Gods, 
And clasp the faith in Christ ; but after that 
Might not St. Andrew's be her happiest day? 
Mary. Then these shall meet upon St. 
Andrew's day. 

Enter Paget, ivho presents the Cojincil. 
Diiinh shoiv. 
Pole. I am an old man wearied with my 
journe\', 
Ev'n with my joy. Permit me to withdraw. 
To Lambeth ? 

Philip. Ay, Lambeth has ousted Cranmer. 
It was not meet the heretic swine should 

live 
In Lambeth. 
Marv. There or anywhere, or at all. 

Philip. We have had it swept and gar- 

nish'd after him. 
Pole. Not for the seven devils to enter in? 
Philip. No, for we trust they parted in 
tile swine. 



+ 



354 



QUEEN MARY. 



Pole. True, and I am the Angel of the 
Pope. 
Farewell, your Graces. 

PkUi/i- Nay, not here — tome; 

I will go with you to the waterside. 
fole. Not be my Charon to the counter 

side ? 
Philip. No, my Lord Legate, the Lord 

Chancellor goes. 
Poh. And unto no dead world ; but Lam- 
beth palace. 
Henceforth a centre of the living faith. 

\_Exe117U Philip, Pole, Paget, etc. 
Manet Mary. 
Mary. He hath awaked ! he hath awaked ! 
He stirs within the darkness ! 
Oh, Philip, husband ! now thy love to mine 
Will cling mure close, and those bleak man- 
ners thaw. 
That make me shamed and tongue-lied in 

my love. 
The second Prince of Peace — 
The great unborn defender of the Faith, 
Who will avenge me of mine enemies — 
He comes, and my star rises. 
The stormy Wyatts and Noithumberlands, 
The proud ambitions of Elizabeth, 
And all her fieriest partisans — are pale 
Betore my star ! 
The light of this new learning wanes and 

dies : 
The ghosts of Luther and Zuinglius fade 
Into the deathless hell which is their doom 
Before my star ! 

His sceptre shall go forth from Iiid to Iiid ! 
His sword shall hew the heretic peoples 

down ! 
His faith shall clothe the world that will be 

his. 
Like universal air and sunshine ! Open, 
Ye everlasting gates ! The King is here I — 
My star, my son ! 

Enter Vhw.w, Duke of Alva, etc. 

Oh, Philip, come with me ; 
Good news have I to tell yon, news to make 
Both of us happy — ay the Kingdom too. 
Nay come with me — one moment ! 

Philip {to Alva). More tlian that : 

There was one here of late — William the 

Silent 
They call him — he is free enough in talk. 
But tells me nothing. You will be, we trust, 
Soine time the viceroy of those provinces — 
He must deserve his surname better. 

A Iva. Ay, sir ; 

Inherit the Great Silence. 

Philifi. True ; the provinces 

Are hard to rule and must be hardly ruled ; 
Most fruitful, yet, indeed, an empty rind. 
All hoUow'd out with stinging heresies; 
And for their heresies, Alva, 'they will fight: 
You must break them or they break you. 
Alva {proudly). The first. 

Philip. Good I 
Well, Madam, this new happiness of mine. 
\,Exi~u>tt. 



Enter Three Pages. 
First Page. News, mates ! a miracle, a 
miracle ! news ! 
The bells must ring ; Te Deums must be 

sung ; 
The Queen hath felt the motion of her babe ! 
Second Page. Ay ; but see here ! 
J'irst Page. See what? 

Seco7id Page. This paper, Dickon. 

I found it fluttering at the palace gates; — 
"The Queen of England is delivered of a 
dead dog ! " 
Third Page. These are the things that 

madden her. Fie upon it. 
First Page. Ay ; but I hear she hath a 
dropsy, lad, 
Or a high-dropsy, as the doctors call it. 
Third Page. Fie on her dropsy, so she 
have a dropsy .' 
I know that she was ever sweet to me. 
First Page. For thou and thine are Ro- 

man to the core. 
Third Page. So thou and thine must be. 

Take heed ! 
First Page. Not I, 

And whether this flash of news be false or 

true, 
So the wine run, and there be revelry. 
Content am \. Let all the steeples clash^ 
Till the sun dance, as upon Easter Day. 

{,Exeunt. 

SCENE in. — GREAT HALL IN 
WHriEHALL. 

At the far end a dais. On this three 
chairs, two under one canopy Jar I\L\KY 
and Philip, a?wther on the right of 
these for Pole. Under the dais on 
Pole's side, ranged along the iva.ll, sit 
all the Spiritual Peers, and al'ng the 
wall opposite, all the Temporal. The 
Cojnnions on cross betiches in front, a 
line of approach tn the dais betivcen 
them, hi the foreground Sir Ralph 
Kagenhall and other Mri\iber.s of the 
Commons. 

First !ire7nl!er. St. Andrew's day ; sit 
close, sit close, we are friends. 
Is reconciled the word ? the Pope again ? 
It must be thus; and yet, cocksbody I how 

strange 
That Gardiner, once so one with all of us 
Against this foreign marriage, should have 

yielded 
So utterly ! — strange ! but stranger still that 

he. 
So fierce against the Headship of the Pope, 
Should play the second actor in this pageant 
That brings him in ; such a cliameleon he ! 
Second Member. This Gardiner turn'd 
his coat in Henry's time ; 
The serpent that hath slough'd will slough 
again. 
Third Member. Tut, then we all are ser- 
pents. 
Second Member. Speak for yourself. 



QUEEN MARY. 



Ill 



Third Member. Ay, and for Gardiner ! 
beint; linglisli citizen. 
How slunild he bear a bridegroom out of 

Spain ? 
The Qiisen would have him ! being English 

churchmai), 
How should he bear the headship of the 

Pope ? 
'I'he Queen would have it ! Statesmen that 

are wise 
Shape a necessity, as the sculptor clay, 
To their own model. 

Seco7id Member. Statesmen that are wise 
Take truth herself for model, what say you ? 
{To Sir Ralph Bagenhall. 
Bagenhall. We talk and talk. 
First Member. Ay, and what use to talk? 
Philip 's no sudden alien — the Queen's hus- 
band, 
He 's here, and king, or will be, — yet cocks- 
body I 
So hated here ! I watch'd a hive of late ; 
My seven-years' friend was with me, my 

young boy ; 
Out crept a wasp, with half the swarm be- 
hind. 
" Philip," says he. I had to cuff the rogue 
For infant treason. 

Third Member. But they say that bees, 
If any creeping life invade their hive 
Too gross to be thrust out, will build him 

round. 
And bind him in from harming of their 

combs. 
And Philip by these articles is bound 
From stirring hand or foot to wrong the 
realm. 
Second Member. By bonds of beeswax, 
like your creeping thing ; 
But your wise bees had stung him first to 
death. 
Third Member. Hush, hush ! 
You wrong the Chancellor : the clauses 

added 
To that same treaty which the emperor sent 

ns 
Were mainly Gardiner's : that no foreigner 
Hold office in the household, fleet, forts, 

army : 
That if the Queen should die without a child, 
The bond betw'een the kingdoms be dis- 
solved : 
That Philip should not mix us any way 
With his French wars — 

Secojid Memlrr. Ay, ny, but what security, 
Good sir, for this, if Philip — 

7 hird Mefnber. Peace — the Queen, 

Philip, and Pole. [A /I rise, a7id stand. 

Enter Marv, Philip, and T?oi.e. 
[Gari5INER conducts iJum to the three 
chairs of state. Philip sits oji the 
Queen's Ic/t, Pole oji her right. 
Gardiner. Our short-lived sun, before his 
winter plunge. 
Laughs at the last red leaf, and Andrew's 
day. 



1 Ma>y. Should not this day be held in 
I after years 

More solemn than of old ? 

Fhi/i/>. Madam, my wish 

Echoes your Majesty's. 

Tote. It shall be so. 

Gardiner. Mine echoes both your 
Graces'; (aside) but the J'ope — 
Can we not have the Catholic chuicii as well 
Without as with the Italian .' if we cannot. 
Why then the Pope. 

My lords of the upper liouse, 
And ye, my masters, of tlie lower house. 
Do ye stand fast by that which ye resolved / 
Voices We do. 

Gardiner. And be you all one mind to 
supplicate 
The Legate here for pardon, and acknowl- 
edge 
The primacy of the Pope ? 

Voices. We are all one mind. 

Gardiner. Then must I play the vassal 
to this Pole. [Aside. 

[He draws a paper from tinder his 
robes njid presents it to the King 
and Queen, tvho look through it 
atid return it to him ; ihg?i ascetids 
a tribune and reacts. 
We, the Lords Spiritual and Temporal, 
And Commons here in Parliament assem- 
bled. 
Presenting the whole body of this realm 
(X England, and dominions of the same. 
Do make most humble suit unio your Majes- 
ties, 
In our own name and that of all the state, 
That by your gracious means and interces- 
sion 
Our supplication be exhibited 
I To the Lord Cardinal Pole, sent here as 
Legate 
From our must holy father Julius, Pope, 
! And Ironi the apostolic see of Rome : 
! And do declare our penitence and grief 
For our lonf; schism and disobedience, 
Either in making laws and ordinances 
Against the Holy Father's primacy. 
Or else by doing or by speaking aught 
Which might impugn or piejudice the same ; 
By this our supplication promising. 
As well for our own selves as all the realm, 
That now we be and ever shall be quick, 
Under and with your Majesties' authorities, 
To do to the utmost all that in us lies 
Towards the abrogation and repeal 
Of all such laws and ordinances made; 
Whereon we humbly pray your Majesties, 
As persons undefiled wiili our oftence, 
So to set forth this humble suit of ours 
That we the rather by your intercession 
May from the apostolic see obtain. 
Thro' this most reverend Father, absolution, 
And full release from danger of all censures 
Of Holy Church that we be fail'n into. 
So that we may, as children penitent. 
Be once again rei.eived into the boson) 
And unity of Universal Church ; 



356 



QUEEN MARY. 



And that this noble realm thro' after years 
May in this unity and obedience 
Unto the holy see and reigning Pope 
Serve God and both your Majesties. 

Voices. Amen. [Ail sit. 

[He again presents the petition to the 
King and Queen, -duho lianii it rev- 
erentially to Polk. 
Pole (sitting-). This is the loveliest day 

that ever smiled 
On England. All her breath should, incense 

like. 
Rise to the heavens in grateful praise of Him 
Who now recalls her to his ancient fold. 
Lo ! once again God to this realm hath given 
A token of His more especial Grace ; 
For as this people were the first of all 
The island:;- call'd into the dawning church 
Out of the dead, deep night of heathendom, 
So now are these the first whom God hath 

given 
Grace to repent and sorrow for their schism ; 
And if Yiinr penitence be not mockery, 
Oh how the blessed angels who rejoice 
Over one saved do trimnph at this hour 
In the reborn salvation of a land 
So noble. [A pattse. 

For ourselves we do protest 
That our commission is to heal, not harm ; 
We come not to condepin, but reconcile ; 
We come not to compel, but call again ; 
We come not to destroy, but edify ; 
Nor yet to question things already done ; 
These are forgiven — matters of tlie past — 
And range with jetsam and with olTal thrown 
Into the blind sea of forgetfulness. [A pause- 
Ye have reversed the attainder laid on us 
By him whosack'd tlie house of God ; and we, 
Amplier than any field on our poor earth 
Can render thanks in fruit for being sown, 
Do here and now repay you sixty-fold, 
A hundred, yea, a thousand thousand fold, 
With heaven for earth- 

[Rising and stretching forth his hands. 
All hieellnit Sir Ralph Bagenhall, 

ivho rises and rt-inains standing. 

The Lord who hath redeeni'd us 
With his own blood, and wash'd us from our 

sins. 
To purchase for Himself a stainless bride ; 
He, whom the Father hath appointed Head 
Of ail his church, He by His mercy absolve 

you ! [A pause. 

And we by that authority Apostolic 
Given unto us, his Legate, by the Pope, 
Our Lord and Holy Father, Julius, 
God's Vicar and Vicegerent upon earth, 
Do here absolve you and deliver you 
And every one of you, and all the realm 
And its dominions from all heresy. 
All schism, and from all and every censure. 
Judgment, and pain accruing thereupon ; 
And also we restore you to the bosom 
And unity of Universal Church. 

( Turning to Gardiner. 
Our letters of commission will declare this 

plainlier. 



[QuEEN' heard sobbing. Cries of 
A men ! A men .' .Some of the mem- 
bers embrace one atiolher. All bttt 
Sir R.^i.ph Bagenhall />.;ijo/</ into 
the neighboring chapel, -whence is 
heard the Te Deutn. 
Bagenhall. We strove against the papacy 
from the first, 
In William's time, in our first Edward's time, 
And in my master Henry's time ; but now, 
The unity of Universal Church, 
Mary would have it ; and this Gardiner fol- 
lows ; 
The unity of Universal Hell, 
Philip would have it ; and this Gardiner fol- 
lows ! 
A Parliament of imitative apes ! 
Sheep at the gap which Gardiner takes, who 

not 
Believes the Pope, nor any of them believe — 
These spaniel-Spaniard English of the time, 
Who rub their fawning noses in the dust. 
For that is Philip's gold-dust, and adore 
This Vicar of their Vicar. Would I had 

been 
Born Spaniard ! I had held my head up 

then. 
I am ashamed that I am Bagenhall, 
English. 

Enter Officer. 
Officer. Sir Ralph Bagenhall. 
Bagenhall. What of that ? 

Officer. You were the one sole man in 
either house 
Who stood upright when both the housesfell. 
Bagenhall. The houses fell ! 
officer. I mean the houses knelt 

Before the Legate 

Bagenhall. Do not scriinp your phrase, 

But stretch it wider : say when England fell. 

Officer. I say you were the one sole man 

who stood. 
Bagenhall. I am the one sole man in 
either house, 
Perchance in England, loves her like a son. 
Officer. Well, you one man, because you 
stood upright. 
Her Grace the Queen commands you to the 
Tower. 
Bagenhall. As traitor, or as heretic, or 

for what ? 
Officer. If any man in any way would be 
The one man he shall be so to his cost. 
Bagenhall. What ! will she have my 

head ? 
Officer. A round fine likelier. 
Your pardon. [Calling to A ttendani. 

By the river to the Tower. 

[Exeu?it, 

SCENE IV. — WHITEHALL. A 
ROOM IN THE PALACE. 

Mary, Gardiner, Pole, Paget, Bon- 
ner, etc. 
Mary. The king apd I, my Lords, now 
that all traitors 



QUEEN MARY. 



3S7 



Against our royal state have lost the heads 
Wherewith they plotted in their treasonous 

malice, 
Have talk'd together, and are well agreed 
That tliose old statutes touching Lollardism 
To bring the heretic to the stake, should be 
No longer a dead letter, but requicken'd. 
One of the Council. Why, what hath flus- 
ter'd Gardiner? how he rubs 
His forelock. 

Paget. I have clianged a word with him 
In coming, and may change a word again. 
Gardiner. Madam, your Highness is our 
sun, the King 
And you to.gelher our two suns in one ; 
And so the beams of botli may shine upon us, 
I'he faith that seem'd to droop will feel your 

light. 
Lift head, and flourish ; yet not light alone, 
There must be heat — there must be heat 

enough 
To scorcli and wither heresy to the root. 
For what saith Christ ? " Compel them to 

come ni" 
And what saith Paul ? "I would they were 

cut off 
That trouble you." Let the dead letter live ! 
Trace it in fire, that all the louts to whom 
Their A B C is darkness, clowns and grooms 
May read it I so you quash rebellion too, 
For heretic and traitor are all one ; 
Two vipers of one breed — an amphisbcena. 
Each end a sting : Let the dead letter burn ! 
Paget. Yet there be some disloyal Catho- 
lics, 
And many heretics loyal : heretic throats 
Cried no God bless-her to the Lady Jane, 
But shouted in Queen Alary. So there be 
Some traitor-heretic, there is axe and cord. 
To take the lives of others that are loyal. 
And by the churchman's pitiless doom of 

fire 
Were but a thankless policy in the crown, 
.\y, and against itself; for there are many. 
."ifary. If we could burn out heresy, my 
Lord P.iget, 
We reck not tho' we lost this crown of Eng- 
land — 
Ay I tho" it were ten Englands ! 

Gardiner. Right, your Grace. 

PiV-et, yon are all for this poor life of ours. 
And care but little for the life to be. 

J'aget. I have some time, for curiousness, 
my Lord, 
W'ltch'd children playing at their life to be. 
And cruel at it, killing helpless flies ; 
Such is our time — all times for aught I 
know. 
Gardiner. We kill the heretics that sting 
the soul — 
They, witli right reason, flies that prick the 
flesh. 
Paget. They had not reach'd right rea- 
son : little children ! 
They kill'd but for their pleasure and the 

power 
ihey felt in killing. 



Gardiner. A spice of Satan, ha I 

Why, good ! what then ? granted ! — we are 

fallen creatures ; 
Look to your Bible, Paget ! we are fallen. 
Paget. I am but of the laity, my Lord 

Bishop, 
And may not read your Bible, yet I found 
One day, a wholesome scripture, " Little 

cliildren. 
Love one another." 

Gardiner. Did you find a scripture, 

"I come not to bring peace but a sword".' 

The sword 
Is in her Grace's hand to smite with. Paget, 
You stand up here to fight for heresy, 
You are more than guess'd at as a heretic. 
And on the steep-up track of the true faith 
Your lai">ses are far seen. 
Paget. The faultless Gardiner ! 

Mary- You brawl beyond the question ; 

speak. Lord Legate. 
Pole. Indeed, I cannot follow with your 

Grace, 
Rather would say — the shepherd doth not 

kill 
The sheep that wander from his flock, but 

sends 
His careful dog to bring them to the fold. 
Look to the Netherlands, wherein have been 
.Such holocausts of heresy ! to what end ? 
For yet the faith is not established there. 
Gardiner. T'he end 's not come. 
Pole. No — nor this way will come, 

Seeing there lie two ways to every end, 
A better and a worse — the worse is here 
To persecute, because to persecute 
Makes a faith hated, and is furthermore 
No perfect witness of a perfect faith 
In him who persecutes : wlien men are tost 
On tides of strange opinion, and not sure 
Of their own selves, they are wroth with 

their own selves. 
And thence with others ; then, who lights 

the fagot ? 
Not the full faith, no, but the lurking doubt. 
Old Rome, that first made martyrs in the 

Church, 
Trembled for her own gods, for these were 

trembling — 
But when did our Rome tremble ? 

Paget. Did she not 

In Henry's time and Edward's? 

Pole. What, my Lord ! 

The Church on Peter's rock? never ! I have 

seen 
A pine in Italy that cast its shadow 
Athwart a cataract ; firm stood the pine — 
The cataract shook the shadow. To my 

mind. 
The cataract typed the headlong plunge and 

fall 
Of heresy to the pit : the pine was Rome. 
You see, my Lords, 

It was the shadow of the Church that trem- 
bled : 
Your church was but the shadow of a church, 
Wanting the triple mitre. 



358 



QUEEN MARY. 



Gardiner (nnUtering). Here be tropes. | 
Pole. And tropes are good to clothe a 
naked truth, 
And make it look more seemly. 

Gardiner. Tropes again ! 

Pole. You are hard to please. Then with- 
out tiupes, my Lord, 
An overmuch severeness, I repeat, 
When faith is wavering makes the waverer 

pass 
Into more settled hatred of the doctrines 
Of those who rule, which hatred by and by 
Involves the ruler (thus there springs to light 
That Centaur of a monstrous Commonweal, 
The traitor-heretic) then tho' some may 

quail, 
Yet others are that dare the stake and fire, 
And their strong torment bravely borne, be- 

An admiration and an indignation. 
And hot desire to imitate ; so the plague 
Of schism spreads ; were there but three or 

four 
Of these misleaders, yet I would not say 
Burn ! and we cannot burn whole towns ; 

they are many, 
As my Lord Paget says. 

Gardiner. Yet my Lord Cardinal — 

Pole. I am your Legate ; please you let 

me finish. 
Methinks that under our Queen's regimen 
We might go softlier than with crimson rowel 
And streaming lash. When Herod-Henry 

first 
Began to batter at your English Church, 
This was the cause, and hence the judgment 

on lier. 
She seethed with such adulteries, and the 

lives 
Of many among your churchmen were so foul 
That heaven wept and earth blusli'd. I 

would advise 
That we should thoroughly cleanse the 

Church within 
Before these bitter statutes be requicken'd. 
So after that when she once more is seen 
White as the lii;ht, the spotless bride of 

Christ, 
Like Christ himself on Tabor, possibly 
The Lutheran may be won to her again ; 
Till when, my Lords, I counsel tolerance. 
Gardiner. What if a mad dog bit your 

hand, my Lord, 
Would you not chop the bitten finger off. 
Lest your whole body should madden with 

the poison ? 
I would not, were I Queen, tolerate the 

heretic, 
No, not an hour. The ruler of a land 
Isbounden by his power and place to see 
His people be not pnison'd. Tolerate I hem ! 
Why? do they tolerate you? Nay, many of 

them 
Would burn — have burnt each other ; call 

they not 
The one true faith, a loathsome idol-wor- 
ship ? 



Beware, Lord Legate, of a heavier crime 
Than heresy is itself; beware I say. 
Lest men accuse you of indifference 
'I'o all faiths, all religion ; for you know 
Right well that you yourself have been sup- 
posed 
Tainted with Lutheranism in Italy. 

Pole(angered). But you, my Lord, beyond 

all supposition. 
In clear and open day were congruent 
With that vile Cranmer in ihe accursed lie 
Of good Queen Catherine's divorce — the 

spring 
Of all those evils that have flow'd upon us ; 
For you yourself have truckled to the tyrant, 
And done your best to bastardize our Queen, 
For which God's righteous judgment fell 

upon you 
In your five years of imprisonment, my 

Lord, 
Under young Edward. Who so bolster'd up 
The gross King's headship of the Church, 

or more 
Denied the Holy Father ! 

Gardiner. Ha ! what ! eh? 

But you, my Lord, a polish'd gentleman, 
A bookman, flying from the heat and tussle, 
You lived among your vines and oranges, 
In your soft Italy vonder ! You were sent 

for, 
You were appeal'd to, but you still preferr'd 
Vour learned leisure. As for what I did 
I suffer'd and repented. You, Lord Legate 
And Cardinal-Deacon, have not now to learn 
I'hat ev'n St. Peter in his time of fear 
Denied his Master, ay, and thrice, my Lord. 
Pole. But not for five and twenty years, , 

my Lord. 
Gardiner. Ha ! good ! it seems then I 

was snmmon'd hither 
But to be mock'd and baited. Speak, friend 

Bonner, 
And tell this learned Legate he lacks zeal. 
The Church's evil is not as the King's, 
Cannot be he.il'd by stroking. The mad 

bite 
Must have the cautery — tell him — and at 

once. 
What wouldst thou do hadst thou his power, 

thou 
That lavest so long in heretic bonds with me. 
Wouldst thou not burn and blast them root 

and branch ? 
Bonner. Ay, after you, my Lord. 
Gardiner. Nay, God's passion, before 

me ! speak. 
Bonner. I am on fire until I see them 

flame- 
Gardiner. Ay, the psalm-singing weavers, 

cobblers, scum — 
But this n)o=t noble prince Plantagenet, 
Our good Queen's cousin — dallying over 

seas 
Even when his brother's, nay, his noble 

mother's, 
Head fell — 
Pole- Peace, mad man 1 



QUEEN MARY. 



3S9 



Thoustirrest upagrief thou canst not fathom. 
Thou Christian Bishop, thou Lord Chan- 
cellor 
Of England ! no more rein upon thine anger 
Than any child ! Thou mak'st ine much 

ashamed 
That I was for a moment wroth at thee. 
Mary. I come tor counsel and ye give me 

feuds, 
Like dogs that set to w.itch their master's 

gate, 
Fall, when the thief is ev'n within the walls. 
To worrying one another. My Lord Chan- 
cellor, 
You have an old trick of offending us ; 
And but that you are art and part with us 
In purging heresy, well we might, for this 
Your violence and much roughness to the 

Legate, 
Have shut vou from our counsels. Cousin 

Pole,' 
You are fresh from brighter lands. Retire 

with me. 
His highness and myself (so you allow us) 
Will let you learn in peace and privacy 
What power this cooler sun •f England hath 
In breeding Godless vermin. And pray 

Heaven 
That you may see according to our sight. 
"Jome, cousin. 

\_Exennt Queen and Pole, etc- 
Gardiner. Pole has the Plantagenet 

face. 
But not the force made them our mightiest 

kings 
Fine eyes — but melancholy, irresolute — 
A fine beard, Bonner, a very full fine beard. 
But a weak nioulh, an indeterminate — ha? 
Bonner. Well, a weak mouth, perchance. 
Gardiner. And not like thine 

To gorge a heretic whole, roasted or raw. 
Bonner. I 'd do my best, my Lord ; but 

yet the Legate 
Is here as Pope and Master of the Church, 
And if tie go not with you — 

Gardiner. Tut, Master Bishop, 

Our bashful Legate, saw'st not how he 

flush'd ? 
Touch him upon his old heretical talk, 
He '11 burn a diocese to prove his orthodoxy. 
And let him call me truckler. In those 

times. 
Thou knowest we had to dodge, or duck, or 

die ; 
I kept my head for use of Holy Church ; 
And see you, we shall have to dodge again, 
And let the Pope trample our rights, and 

plunge 
His foreign fist into our island Church 
To plump the leaner pouch of Italy. 
For a time, for a time. 
Why? that these statutes may be put in 

force. 
And that his fan may thoroughly purge his 

floor. 
Bonner. So then you hold the Pope — 
Gardiner. I hold the Pope I 



What do I hold him? what do I hold the 

Pope? 
Come, come, the morsel stuck — this Car- 
dinal's fault — 
I have gulpt it down. I am wholly for the 

Pope, 
Utterly and altogether for the Pope, 
The Eternal Peter of the changeless chair, 
Ciown'd slave of slaves, and mitred king of 

kings, 
God upon earth! what more? what would 

you have ? 
Hence, let 's be gone. 

Enter Usher. 
Usher. Well that you be not gone, 

My Lord. The Queen, most wroth at first 

with you. 
Is now content to grant you full forgiveness, 
So that you crave full pardon of the Legate. 
1 am sent to fetch you. 

Gardiner. Doth Pole yield, sir, ha ! 

Did you hear 'em? were you by? 

Usher. 1 cannot tell you, 

His bearing is so courtly-delicate ; 
And yet metliinks he falters : their two 

Graces 
Do so dear-cousin and royal-cousin him. 
So press on him the diiiy wliich as Legate 
He ovves himself, and with such royal 

smiles — 
Gardiner . Smiles thai burn men. Bon- 
ner, it will be carried. 
He falters, ha? 'fore God we change and 

change : 
Men now are bow'd and old, the doctors tell 

you, 
At threescore years ; then if we change at all 
We needs must do it quickly ; it is an age 
Of brief life, and brief purpose, and brief 

patience. 
As I have shown to-day. I am sorry for it 
If Pole be like to turn Our old friend 

Craniner, 
Your more especial love, hath turn'd so 

often, 
He knows not where he stands, which, if 

this pass. 
We too shall have to teach him ; let 'em 

look to it, 
Cranmer and Hooker, Ridley and Latimer, 
Rogers and Ferrar, for their time is come. 
Their hour is hard at hand, their " dies Irs,' 
Their " dies Ilia," which will test their sect. 
I feel it but a duty — yon will find in it 
Pleasure as well as duty, worthy Bonner, — 
To test their sect. Sir, I attend the Queen 
To crave most humble pardon — of her most 
Royal, Infallible, Papal Legate-cousin, 

\_Exeunt. 

SCENE v. — WOODSTOCK. 
Elizabeth, Lady in Waiting. 
Lady. The colors of our Queen are green 
and white. 
These fields are only green, they make me 
gape. 



360 



QUEEN MARY. 



Elizahetk. There 's whitethorn, girl. 
Lady. Ay, for an hour in May. 

But court is always May, buds out in masks. 
Breaks into feather'd merriments, and tiow- 

ers 
In silken pageants. Why do they keep us 

here ? 
Why still suspect your Grace? 

Elizabeth. Hard upon both. 

[ IVrites ok the window "with a diarnond^ 
Much suspected, of ine 
Nothing y>roven can be, 

Quoth Elizabeth, prisoner. 

Lady. What hath your Highness written ? 

Elizabeth. A true rhyme. 

Lady. Cut with a diamond ; so to last 
like truth. 

Elizabeth. Ay, if truth last. 

Lady. But truth, they say, will out, 

So it must last. It is not like a word. 
That comes and goes in uttering. 

Elizabeth. 'I'ruth, a word ! 

The very Truth and very Word are one. 
But truth of story, which I glanced at, girl, 
Is like a word that comes from olden days. 
And passes thro' the peopk's : every tongue 
Alters it passing, till it spells and speaks 
Quite other than at first. 

Lady. I do not follow. 

Elizabeth. How many names in the long 
sweep of time 
That so foreshortens greatness, may but hang 
On the chance mention of some fool that 

once 
Brake bread with us, perhaps ; and my poor 

chronicle 
Is but of glass. Sir Henry Bedingfield 
May split it for a spite. 

Lady. God grant it last, 

And witness to your Grace's innocence, 
Till doomsday melt it. 

Elizabeth. Or a second fire, 

Like that which lately crackled underfoot 
And in this very chamber, fuse the glass, 
And char us back again into the dust 
We spring from. Never peacock against 

rain 
Scream'd as you did for water. 

Lady. And I got it. 

I woke Sir Henry — and he's true to you — 
1 read his honest horror in his eyes. 

Elizabeth. Or true to you ? 

Lady. Sir Henry Bedingfield ! 

I will have no man true to me, your Grace, 
But one that pares his nails; to me? the 

clown I 
For, like his cloak, his manners want the 

nap 
And gloss of court ; but of this fire he says, 
Nay swears, it was no wicked wilfulness, 
Only a natural chance. 

Elizabeth. A chance — perchance 

One of those wicked wilfuls that men make. 
Nor shame to call ii nature. Nay, I know 
They hunt my blood. Save for my daily 

range 
Among the pleasant fields of Holy Writ 



I might despair. But there hath some one 

come ; 
The house is all in movement. Hence, and 
see. \Exit L.\dv. 

Milkmaid {singing without). 
Shame upon you, Robin, 

Shame upon you now ! 
Kiss nie would you V with iny hands 
Milking the cow ? 
Daisies grow again, 
Kingcups blow again, 
And you came and kiss'd me milking the cow. 

Robin came behind me, 

Kiss'd me well I vow ; 
Cuffhini could I? with my hands 

Milking the cow? 

Swallows fly again, 

Cuckoos cry again, 
And you came and kiss'd me milking the cow. 

Come, Robin, Robin, 

Come .and kiss me now ; 
Help it can I ? with my hands 

Milkiiig the cowV 

Ringdoves coo again. 

All things woo again. 
Come behind and kiss me milking the cow ! 

Elizabeth. Right honest and red-cheek'd ; 
Robin was violent. 

And she was crafty — a sweet violence, 

And a sweet craft. I would I were a milk- 
maid. 

To sing, love, marry, churn, brew, bake, and 
die, 

Then have my simple headstone by the 
church. 

And all things lived and ended honestly. 

I could not if I would. 1 am Harry's daugh- 
ter : 

Gardiner would have my head. They are 
not sweel, 

The violence and the craft that do divide 

The world of nature ; what is weak must lie ; 

The lion needs but roar to guard his young ; 

The lapwing lies, says ''here" when they 
are there. 

Threaten tlie child ; " I '11 scourge you if you 
did it." 

What weapon hath the child, save his soft 
tongue. 

To say "I did not"? and my rod's the 
block. 

I never lay my head upon the pillow 

But that I think, " Wilt thou lie there to- 
morrow ? " 

How oft the falling axe, that never fell, 

Hath shock'd me back into the daylight truth 

That it may fall to-day I Those damp, 
black, dead 

Nights in the Tower; dead — with the fear 
of death — 

Too dead ev'n for a death-watch ! Toll of a 
bell. 

Stroke of a clock, the scurrying of a rat 

Affrighted me, and then delighted me, 

For there was life — And there was life in 
death — 

The little murder'd princes, in a pale light, 

Rose hand in hand, and whisper'd, " come 
away, 



QUEEN MARY. 



36i 



The civil wars are gone forevermore : 
Thou last of all the Tudors, come away, 
With us is peace !" The last? It was a 

dream ; 
I must not dream, not wink, but watch. 

She has gone, 
Maid Marian to her Robin — by and by 
Uoth happy ! a fox may filch a hen by night, 
And make a morning outcry in the yard : 
But there 's no Reuard here to "catch her 

tripping." 
Catch me who can ; yet, sometime 1 have 

wish'd 
That I were caught, and kill'd away at once 
Out of the tlntter. The gray rogue, Gardnier, 
Went on his knees, and pray'd me to contess 
In Wyatt's business, and lo cast myself 
Upon the good Queen's mercy ; ay, when, 

my Lord ? 
God save the Queen. My jailer — 

Enter SiK Henkv Bedingfield. 

Bedhtgfield. One, whose bolts. 

That j.iil you from free life, bar you from 

death. 
There haunt some Papist ruffians hereabout 
Would murder you. 

Elizabeth. I thank you lieartily, sir. 

But I am royal, the' your prisoner. 
And God hath blest or cursed me with a 

nose — 
Your boots are from the horses. 

Bedingfield. Ay, my Lady. 

When next there conies a missive from the 

Queen 
It shall be all my study for one hour 
To rose and lavender my horsiness. 
Before I dare to glance upon your Grace. 
Elizabeth. A missive from the Queen : 

last time she wrote, 
I had like to have lost my life : it takes my 

breath : 

God, sir, do you look upon your boots, 
Are you so small a man ? Help me : what 

think you, 
Is it life or death ? 

Beditigfield. I thought not on my boots ; 
The devil take all boots were ever made 
Since man went barefoot. See, I lay it here, 
For I will come no nearer to your Grace ; 

\I.nying doivn the letter. 
And whether it bring you bitter news or 

sweet. 
And God have given your Grace a nose, or 

not, 

1 '11 help you, if I may. 

Elizabeth. ^'our pardon, then ; 

It is the heat and narrov^ness of the cage 
That makes the captive testy ; with free wing 
The world were all one Araby. Leave me 

now, 
Will you, companion to myself, sir? 

Bedingfield. _ _ Will I ? 

With most exceeding willingness, I will; 
Vou know I never come till I be call'd. ] 

\E.^it. 
Elizabeth. It lies there folded: is there 
venom in it? i 



A snake — and if I touch it, it may sting. 
Come, come, the worst ! 
Best wisdom is to know the worst at once. 
\.Rcads : 
" It is the King's wish that you should wed 
Prince Philiben of Savo) . You arc lo come 
to Court on the instant ; and think of this in 
your coming. Marv the Queen." 

Think ! I have many thoughts ; 
I think there may be birdlime here for me ; 
I think they fain would have me from the 

realm ; 
I think the Queen may never bear a child ; 
I think that I may be Eometime the Queen, 
Then, Queen indeed : no foreign prince or 

priest 
Should fill my throne, myself upon the steps. 
I think I will not marry any one. 
Specially not this landless Philibert 
Of Savoy ; but, if Philip menace [ne, 
I think that I will play with Pliilibert, — 
As once the holy father did wiih mine. 
Before my father married my good mother, — 
For fear of Spain. 

Enter Lady. 
Lady. O Lord ! your Grace, your Grace 
I feel so happy : it seems that we shall fly 
These bald, blank fields, and dance into the 

sun 
That shines on princes. 

Elizabeth. Yet, a moment since, 

I wish'd myself the milkmaid singing here. 
To kiss and cuff among the birds and flow- 
ers — 
A right rough life and healthful. 

Lady. But the wench 

Hath her own troubles ; she is weeping now ; 
For the wrong Robin took her at her word. 
Then the cow kick'd, and all her milk was 

spilt. 
Your Highness such a milkmaid? 

Elizabeth. I had kept 

My Robins and my cows in sweeter order 
Had I been such. 
Lady (slyly). And had your Grace a Robin. 
Elizabeth. Come, come, you are chill 

here ; you want the sun 
That shines at court ; make ready for the 

journey. 
Pray God, we 'scape the sunstroke. Re.idy 

at once. [Exeunt. 

SCENE VI. — LONDON. A ROOM 
IN THE PALACE. 

Lord PETREawt/ Lord William Howard. 

Petre- You cannot see the Queen. Re- 
nard denied her, 
Ev'n now to me. 

Howard. Their Flemish go-between 

And all-in-all. I came to thank her Majesty 
For freeing my friend Bacenhall from the 

Tower ; 
A grace to me ! Mercy, that herb-of-grace. 
Flowers now but seldom. 

Petre. Only now perhaps, 



f 



362 



QUE EX MARY. 



Because the Queen hath been three days in 

tears 
For Philip's going — like the wild hedge-rose 
Of a soft winter, possible, not probable, 
However, you liave prov'n it. 
Howard. I must see her. 

Enter Renard. 
Renard. My Lords, you cannot see her 

Majesty. 
Howard. Why then the King ! for I 

would have him bring it 
Home to the leisure wisdom of his Queen, 
Before he go, that since these statutes past, 
Gardiner out-Gardinevs Gardiner in his heat, 
Bonner cannot out-Bonner his own self — 
Beast ! — but they play with fire as children 

do. 
And burn the house. I know that these are 

breeding 
A fierce resolve and fixt heart-hate in men 
Against the King, the Queen, the Holy 

Father, 
The faith itself Can I not see him ? 

Renard. Not now. 

And in all this, my Lord, her Majesty 
Is flint of flint, you may strike fire from her. 
Not hope to melt her. I will give your mes- 
sage. \_ExeuntVs.-ws.andS\o\i\-s.u. 
Enter Philip {musing). 
Philip. She will not have Prince Philibert 

of Savoy, 
I talk'd with her in vain — says she will live 
And die true maid— a goodly creature too. 
Would she had been the Queen ! yet she 

must have him ; 
She troubles England : that she breathes in 

England 
Is life and lungs to every rebel birth 
That passes out of embryo. 

Simon Renard ! — 
This Howard, whom they fear, what was he 

saying ? 
Renard. What your imperial father said, 

my liege, 
To deal with heresy gentlier. Gardiner 

burns. 
And Bonner burns ; and it would seem this 

people 
Care more for our brief life in their wet land. 
Than yours in happier Spain. I told my 

Lord 
He should not vex her Highness ; she would 

say 
These are the means God works with, that 

His church 
May flourish. 

Fhilift. Ay, sir, but in statesmanship 

To strike too soon is oft to miss the blow. 
Thou knowest I bade my cliaplain, Castro, 

preach 
Against these burnings. 

Renard. And the Emperor 

Approved you, and when last he wrote, de- 
clared 
His comfort in your Grace that you were 

bland 



And affable to men of all estates, 

In hope to charm them from their hate of 

Spain. 
Philip. In hope to crush all heresy under 

Spain. 
But, Renard, I am sicker staying here 
Than any sea could make me passing hence, 
Tho' I be ever deadly sick at sea. 
So sick am I with biding for this child. 
Is it the fashion in this clime for women 
To go twelve mouths in bearing of a child? 
The nurses yawn'd, the cradle gaped, they 

led 
Processions, chanted litanies, clash'd their 

bells. 
Shot off their lying cannon, and her priests 
Have preach'd, the fools, of this fair prince 

to come. 
Till, by St. James, I find myself the fool. 
Why do you lift your eyebrow at me thus? 
Renard. I never saw your Highness 

moved till now. 
Philip So, weary am I of this wet land 

of theirs, 
And every soul of man that breathes there- 
in. 
Renard. My liege, we must not drop the 

mask before 
The masquerade is over — 

Philip. — Have I dropt it? 

I have but shown a loathing face to you, 
Who knew it from the first. 

Enter Mary. 
Mary {aside). With Renard. Slill 

Parleying with Renard, all the day with 

Renard, 
And scarce a greeting all the day for me — 
And goes to-morrow. \_Exit Mary. 

Philip {to Renard, who advances to 

him). Well, sir, is there more? 
Renard {who has perceived the QvBEn). 
May Simon Renard speak a single 
word ? 
Philip Ay. 

Renard. And be forgiven for it ? 
Philip. Simon Renard 

Knows me too well to speak a single word 
That could not be forgiven. 

Renard. Well, my liege, 

Your Grace hath a most chaste and loving 
wife. 
Philip Why not? The Queen of Philip 

should be chaste. 
Renard. Ay, but, my Lord, you know 
what Virgil sin.gs. 
Woman is various and most mutable. 
Philip. Sl.e play the harlot ! never. 
Renard. No, sire, no, 

Not dream'd of by the rabidest Gospeller. 
There was a paper thrown into the palace, 
" The King hath wearied of his barren 

bride." 
She came upon it, read it, and then rent it, 
Witli all the rage of one who hates a truth 
He cannot but allow. Sire, I would have 
you — 



QUEEN MARY. 



36J 



What should I say, I cannot pick my 

words — 
Be somewhat less — majestic to your Queen. 
Philip. Am I to change my manners, Si- 
mon Kenard, 
Because these islanders are brutal beasts? 
Or would you have me turn a sonneteer, 
And warhle those brief-siglited eyes of hers? 
Kenard. Kriel-sighted tho' they be, I have 
seen them, sire, 
When you perchance were trifling royally 
With some lair dame o( court, suddenly fill 
With such fierce fire — had it been fire in- 
deed 
I It would have burnt both speakers. 

Philip. Ay, and then ? 

Renard. Sire, might it not be policy in 
some matter 
Of small importance now and then to cede 
A point to her demand ? 

Philip. Well, I am going. 

Renard. For should her love, when you 
are gone, my liege. 
Witness these papers, there will not be want- 
ing 
Those that will urge her injury — should her 

love — 
And I have known such women more than 

one — 
Veer to the counterpoint, and jealousy 
Hath in it an alchemic force to fuse 
Almost into one metal love and hate, — 
And she iinpress her w rongs upon her Coun- 
cil, 
And these again upon her Parliainent — 
We are not loved here, and would be then 

perhaps ^ 

Not so well holpen in our wars with France, 
As else we might be — here she comes. 

Enter Mary. 
Mary. O Philip ! 

Nay, must you go indeed ? 
Philip. Madam, I must. 

Mary. The parting of a husband and a 
wife 
Is like the cleaving of a heart; one half 
Will flutter here, one there 
Philip. You say true. Madam. 

Mary. The Holy Virgin will not have me 
yet 
Lose the sweet hope that I may bear a 

prince. 
If such a prince were born and you not 
here ! 
Philip. I should be here if such a prince 

were born. 
Mary. But must you go ? 
Philip. Madam, you know my father, 

Retiring into cloistral solitude 
To yield the remnant of his years to heaven. 
Will shift the yoke and weight of all the 

world 
From off his neck to mine. We meet at 

Brussels. 
But since mine absence will not be for long, 
Your Majesty shall go to Dover with me. 
And wait my coming back. 1 



Alary. To Dover? no, 

I am too feeble. I will go to Greenwich. 
So you will have me with you ; and there 

watch 
All that is gracious in the breath of heaven 
Draw with your sails from our poor land, and 

pass 
And leave me, Philip, with my prayers for 
you. 
Philip. And doubtless I shall profit by 

your prayers. 
Mary. Methinks that would you tarry one 
day more 
(The news was sudden) I could mould my- 
self 
To bear your going better ; will you do it? 
Philip. Madam, a day may sink or save a 

realm. 
Mary. A day may save a heart from 

breaking too. 
Philip. Weil, .Simon Renard, shall we 

stop a day ? 
Reitard. Your Grace's business will not 
suffer, sire. 
For one day more, so far as I can tell. 
Philip Then one day more to please her 

Majesty. 
Mary. The sunshine sweeps across my 
life again. 

if I knew you felt this parting, Philip, 
As I do ! 

Philip. By St. James I do protest. 
Upon the faith and honor of a Spaniard, 

1 am vastly grieved to leave your Majesty 
Simon, is supper ready? 

Renard. Ay, my liege, 

I saw the covers laying. 
Philip. Let us have it. 

{^Exeunt. 



ACT IV. 

SCENE I. — A ROOM IN THE 
PALACE. 

Marv, Caddinal Pole. 
Mary. What have you there? 
Pole. So please your Majesty, 

A long petition from the foreign exiles 
To spare the life of Cranmer. Bishop Thirl- 

by, 
And my Lord Paget and Lord William 

Howard, 
Crave, in the same cause, hearing of your 

Grace. 
Hath he not written himself— infatuated — 
To sue you for his life? 

Mary. His life? Oh, no; 

Not sued for that — he knows it were in 

vain. 
But so much of the anti-papal leaven 
Works in him yet, he hath prayed me not to 

sully 
Mine own prerogative, and degrade the 

real m 
By seeking justice at a stranger's hand 



364 



QUEEN MARY. 



Against my natural subject- King and 

Queen, 
To whom he owes his loyalty after God, 
Shall these accuse him to a foreign prince ? 
Death would not grieve him more. I can- 
not be 
True to this realm of England and the Pope 
Together, says the heretic. 

I'ole. And there errs ; 

As he hath ever err'd thro' vanity. 
A secular kingdom is but as the body 
Lacking a soul ; and in itself a beast. 
The Holy Father in a secular kingdom 
Is as the soul descending out of heaven 
Into a body generate. 

Mary. Write to him, then. 

Pole. I will. 

Mary. And sharply, Pole. 

Pole. Here come the Cranmerites! 

£■«/?>■ Thirlbv, Lord Paget, Lord Wil- 
liam HoW.'\RD. 
Howard- Health to your Grace. Good- 
morrow, my Lord Cardinal ; 
We make our humble prayer unto your 

Grace 
That Cranmer may withdraw to foreign parts, 
Or into private life within the realm. 
In several bills and declarations, Madam, 
He hath recanted all his heresies. 
Paget. Ay, ay ; if Bonner have not forged 
the bills. \A side- 

Mary. Did not More die, and Fisher? 

he must burn. 
Howard- He hath recanted, Madam. 
Mary- The better for him. 

He burns in Purgatory, not in Hell. 
Hozvard. Ay, ay, your Grace ; but it was 
never seen 
That any one recanting thus at full, 
As Cranmer hath, came to the fire on earth. 
Mary- It will be seen now, then. 
Thirlby- O Madam, Madam ! 

I thus implore you, low upon my knees. 
To reach the hand of mercy to my friend. 
I have err'd with him ; with him I have 

recanted. 
What human reason is there vihy my friend 
Should meet with lesser mercy than myself? 
Mary. My Lord of Ely, this. After a riot 
We hang tlie leaders, let their following go. 
Cranmer is head and father of these heresies. 
New learning as they call it ; yea, may God 
Forget me at most need when I forget 
Her foul divorce — my sainted mother — 
No! — 
Howard- Ay, ay, but mighty doctors 
doubted there. 
The Pope himself waver'd ; and more than 

one 
Row'd in that galley — Gardiner to wit, 
Whom truly I deny not to have been 
Your faithful friend and trusty councillor. 
Hath not your Highness ever read his book, 
His tractate upon True Obedience, 
Writ by himself and Bonner? 
Mary, I will take 



Such order with all bad, heretical books 
That none shall hold them in his house and 

live. 
Henceforward. No, my Lord. 

Howard. 'I'hen never read it. 

The truth is here. Your father was a man 
Of such colossal kiiighood, yet so courteous, 
Except when wroth, you scarce could meet 

his eye 
And hold your own ; and were he wroth 

indeed, 
You held it less, or not at all. I say. 
Your father had a will that beat men down ; 
Your father had a brain that beat men 
down — 
Pole- Not nie, my Lord. 
Howard- No, for you were not here ; 

You sit upon this fallen Cranmer's throne ; 
And it would more become you, my Lord 

Legate, 
To join a voice, so potent with her Highness, 
To ours in plea for Cranmer than to stand 
On naked self-assertion. 

Mary- All your voices 

Are waves on flint. The heretic must bum. 
Howard- Yet once he saved your Maj- 
esty's own life ; 
Stood oufagainst the King in your behalf, 
At his own peril. 

Mary- I know not if he did ; 

And if he did I caie not, my Lord Howard. 
My life is not so happy, r.o such boon, 
That I should spare to take a heretic priest's, 
Who saved it or not saved. Why do you vex 
me? 
Paget. Yet to save Cranmer were to save 
the Church, 
Your Majesty's I mean; he is effaced, 
Self-blotted out ; so wounded in his honor, 
He can but creep down into some dark hole 
Like a hurt beast, and hide liims^elfand die ; 
But if you burn him, — well, your Highness 

knows 
The saying, "Martyr's blood — seed of the 
Church" 
Mary- Of the true Church ; but his is 
none, nor will be. 
You are too politic for me, my Lord Paget. 
And if he have to live so loath'd a lite, 
It were more merciful to burn him now. 
Thirlhy. O yet relent. O, Madam, if you 
knew him 
As I do, ever gentle, and so gracious. 
With all his learning — 

Mary. Yet a heretic still 

His learning makes his burning the more 

just. 

Thirlby- So worshipt of all those that 

came across him ; 

The stranger at his hearth, and all his house — 

Mary. His children and his concubine, 

belike. 
Thirlhy. To do him any wrong was to 
beget 
A kindness from him, for his heart was rich. 
Of such fine mould, that if you .sow'd therein 
The seed of Hate, it blossom'd Charily. 



QUEEN MARY. 



36^ 



Pole. " After his kind it costs him noth- 
ing," there 's 
An old world English adage to the point. 
These are but natural graces, my good 

Bishop, 
Which in the Catholic garden are as flowers. 
But on the heretic dunghill only weeds. 
Howard. Such weeds make dunghills 

gracious. 
Mary. Enough, my Lords. 

It is God's will, the Holy Father's will, 
And Pliilip's will, and mine, that he should 

burn. 
He is jironounced anathema. 

Howard. Farewell, Madam, 

God grant you ampler mercy at your call 
Than you have shown to Cranmer. 

\Exetott Lords. 
Pole After this, 

Your Grace will hardly care to overlook 
This same petition of the foreign exiles, 
For Cranmer's life. 
Mary. Make out the writ to-night. 

[E.xeinit . 

SCENE IT — OXFORD. CRANMER 
IN PRISON. 

Cranmer. Last night, I dream'd the 
fagots were alight. 
And that myself was fasten'd to the stake. 
And found it all a visionary flame. 
Cool as the light in old decaying wood ; 
And then King Harry look'd from out a 

cloud. 
And bade me have good courage: and I 

heard 
An angel cry, " there is more joy m 

Heaven," — 
And after that, the trumpet of the dead. 

[ Trumpets without. 
Why, there are trumpets blowing now : what 
is it? 

Enter Father Cole. 
Cole. Cranmer, I come to question you 
again ; 
Have you remain'd in the true Catholic 

Faith 
I left you in ? 

Cranmer. In the true Catholic faith. 
By Heaven's grace, I am more and more 

confirm'd. 
Why are the trumpets blowing, Father Cole ? 
Cole. Cranmer, it is decided by the Coun- 
cil 
That you to-day should read your recanta- 
tion 
Before the people in St. Mary's Church. 
.\nd there be many heretics in the town. 
Who loathe you for your late return to Rome, 
And might assail you passing through the 

street, 
And tear you piecemeal : so you have a 
guard. 
Cranmer. Or seek to rescue me. I thank 

the Council 
Cole. Do ynu lack any money? 



Cranmer. Nay, wliy should 1 1 

The prison fare is good enough for me. 

Cole. Ay, but to give the poor. 

Cranmer. Hand it me, then I 

I thank you. 

Cole. For a little space, farewell ; 

Until I see you in St. Mary's Church. 

[Ejcit Cole. 

Cranmer. It is against all precedent to 
burn 
One who recants ; they mean to pardon me. 
To give the poor — they give the poor who 

die. 
Well, burn me or not burn me I am fixt ; 
It is but a communion, not a mass : 
A holy supper, not a sacrifice ; 
No man can make his Maker — Villa Garcia. 

Enter Villa Garci.a. 
Villa Garcia. Pray you write out this 

paper for me, Cranmer. 
Ctanvter. Have I not writ enough to sat- 
isfy you ? 
Villa Garcia. It is the last. 
Cranmer. Give it me, then. 

\_He writes. 
Villa Garcia. Now sign. 

Cranmer. I have sign'd enough, and I 

will sign no more. 
P'illa Garcia. It is no more than what 
you have sign'd already. 
The public form thereof 

Cranmer. It may be so ; 

I sign it with my presence, if I read it. 
P'illa Garcia. But this is idle of you. 
Well, sir, well, 
You are to beg the people to pray for you ; 
Exhort them to a pure and virtuous life ; 
Declare the Queen's right to the throne ; 

confess 
Your faith before all hearers ; and retract 
That Eucliaristic doctrine in your book. 
Will you not sign it now ? 

Cranmer. No, Villa Garcia, 

I sign no more. Will they have mercy on me? 
Villa Garcia Have you good hopes of 
mercy ! So, farewell. [Exit. 

Cranmer. Good hopes, not theirs, have I 
that I am fixt, 
Fixt beyond fall ; however, in strange hours, 
After the long brain-dazing colloquies. 
And thousand-times recurring argument 
Of those two friars ever in my prison. 
When left alone in my despondency. 
Without a friend, a book, my faith would 

seem 
Dead or half-drown'd, or else swam heavi'y 
Against the huge corruptions of the Church, 
Monsters of mistradition, old enough 
To scare me into dreaming, "what am I, 
Cranmer, against whole ages? " was it so, 
Or am I slandering my most inward friend. 
To veil the fault of my most outward foe — 
The soft and tremulous coward in the flesh ? 

higher, holier, earlier, purer church, 

1 have found thee and not leave thee any 

more. 



366 



QUEEN MARY. 



It is but a communion, not a mass — 
No sacrifice, but a lile-j^iviug (east ! 
(Writes.) So, so; tins will 1 say — thus 
wii] 1 pray. "yP tits up the paper. 

Enter Bonner. 
Bonner. Good-day, old friend ; what, you 
look somewhat worn : 
And yet it is a day to lest your health 
Ev'n at the best : I scarce have spoken with 

you 
Since when ? — your degradation. At your 

trial 
Never stood up a bolder man than you ; 
You would not cap the Pope's commis- 
sioner — 
Your learning, and your stoutness, and your 

heresy, 
Dumfounded half of us. So, after that, 
We had to dis-archbishop and unlord. 
And make you simple Cranmer once again. 
The common barber dipt your hair, and I 
Scraped from your fmger- points the lioly oil ; 
And worse than all, you had to kneel to me : 
Which was not pleasant lor you, Master 

Cranmer. 
Now you, that uould not recognize the Pope, 
And you, that would not own the Real Pres- 
ence, 
Have found a real presence in the stake. 
Which frights you back into the ancient 

faith ; 
And so you have recanted to the Pope. 
How are the mighty fallen, Master Cran- 
mer ! 
Cra7tmer. You have been more fierce 
against the Pope than I ; 
But why fling back the stone he strikes me 
with? \_Aside. 

Bonner, if I ever did you kindness — 
Power hath been given you to try faith by 

fire — 

Pray you, remembering how yourself have 
changed. 

Be somewhat pitiful, after I have gone, 

To the poor flock — to women and to chil- 
dren — 

That when I was archbishop held with me. 
Bonner. Ay — gentle as they call you — 
live or die ! 

Pitiful to this pitifiil heresy? 

1 must obey the Queen and Council, man. 
Win thro' this day with honor to yourself, 
And I 'II say something for you — so — good- 

by. [Exit. 

Cranmer. This hard coarse man of old 
hath crouch'd to me 
Till I myself was half ashamed for him. 

Enter Thirlbv. 
Weep not, good Thirlby. 

Thirlby. Oh, my Lord, my Lord 1 

My heart is no such block as Bonner's is: 
Who would not weep ? 

Cranmer. Why do you so my-lord me, 
Who am disgraced ? 

Thirlby. On earth; but saved in heaven 
By your recanting. 



Cranmer. Will they burn me, Thirlbyl 
Thirlby. Alas, they will ; these burnings 
will not help 
The purpose of the faith ; but my poor voice 
Against them is a whisper to the roar 
Of a springtide. 

Cranmer. And they will surely burn me? 
Thirlby. Ay ; and besides, will have you 
in the church 
Repeat your recantation in the ears 
Of all men, to the saving of their souls. 
Before your execution. May God help you 
Thro' that hard hour. 

Cranmer. And may God bless you, Thirl- 
by. 
Well, they shall hear my recantation there. 
[Exit Thiklbv. 
Disgraced, dishonor'd ! — not by them, in- 
deed, 
By mine own self— by mine own hand ! 

thinskinn'd hand and jutting veins, 'twas 

you 

That sigii'd the burning of poor Joan of 
Kent ; 

But then she was a witch. You have writ- 
ten much, 

But you were never raised to plead for Frith, 

Whose dogmas I have reach'd : he was de- 
liver'd 

To the secular arm to burn ; and there was 
Lambert ; 

Who can foresee himself? truly these burn- 
ings. 

As Thirlby says, are profitless to the burn- 
ers. 

And help the other side. You shall burn 
too, 

Burn first when I am burnt. 

Fire — inch by inch to die in agony ! Lati- 
mer 

Had a brief end — not Ridley. Hooper 
burn'd 

Three-quarters of an hour. Will my fagots 

Be wet as his were? It is a day of rain. 

1 will not muse upon it. 

My fancy takes the burner's part, and makes 

The fire seem even crueller than it is. 

No, I not doubt that God will give me 

strength, 
Albeit I have denied him. 

Enter Soto and Vii.r.A Garcia. 
Villa Garcia. We are ready 

To take you to St. Mary's, Master Cranmer. 
Crantner. And I : lead on ; ye loose me 
from my bonds. [Exet4nt. 

SCENE HL — ST. MARY'S CHURCH. 

Coi.E in the Pul/>it, Lord Williams of 
Thamk />residi}t^. Lord William How- 
ard, Lord Paget, and others. Cran- 
mer enters between Soto and Villa 
Garcia, and the whole Choir strike uf> 
'''' Kunc Dimittis." Cranmer/j sctupon 
a Scaffold before the people. 
Cole. Behold him — 

[A pause ; people in the foreground. 



QUEEN MARY. 



367 



People- Oh, unhappy sight ! 

First Protestajit. See how the tears run 

down his fatherly face. 
Second Protestant. James, didst thou 

ever see a carrion crow 
Stand watching a sick beast before he dies? 
First Protest. mi Him perch'd up there? 

I wish some thunderbolt 
Would make this Cole a cinder, pulpit and 

all. 
Cole- Behold him, brethren : he hath 

cause to weep ! — 
So have we all : weep with him if ye will, 
Yet — 

It is expedient for one man to die. 
Yea, for the people, lest the people die. 
Yet wherefore should he die that hath re- 

turn'd 
To the one Catholic Universal Church, 
Repentant of his errors? 
Protestant Aliiruiiirs. Ay, tell us that. 
Cole- Those of the wrong side will despise 

the jnan. 
Deeming him one that thro' the fear of death 
Gave up his cause, except he seal his faith 
In sight of all with Haniing martyrdom. 
Crantner. Ay. 
Cole. Ve hear him, and albeit there may 

seem 
According to the canons pardon due 
To him that .so repents, yet are there causes 
Wherefore our Queen and Council at tliis 

time 
Adjudge him to the death. He hath been 

a traitor, 
A shaker and confounder of the realm ; 
And when the King's divorce was sued at 

Rome, 
He here, this heretic metropolitan. 
As if he had been the Holy Father, sat 
And judged it. Did I call him heretic? 
A huge heresiarch ! never was it known 
That any man so writing, preaching so, 
So poisoning the Church, so long continuing. 
Hath found his pardon ; therefore he must 

die. 
For warning and example. 

Other reasons 
There he for this man's ending, which our 

Queen 
And Council at this present deem it not 
Expedient to be known. 

Protestant Miirinurs. I warrant yon. 
Cole, 'lake therefore, all, example by this 

man. 
For if our Holy Queen not pardon him. 
Much less shall others in like cause escape. 
That all of you, the highest as the lowest. 
May learn there is no power against the 

Lord. 
There stands a man, once of so high degree, 
Chief prelate of our Church, archbishop, first 
In Council, second person in the realm. 
Friend for so long time of a mighty King ; 
And now ye see downfallen and debased 
From councillor to caitiff — fallen so low. 
The leprous flutterings of the byway, scum 



And offal of the city would not change 
Estates with him ; in brief, so miserable. 
There is no hope of better left for him, 
No place for worse. 

Yet, Cranmer, be thou glad. 
This is the work of God. He is glorified 
In thy conversion : lo I thou art reclaim'd; 
He brings thee home : nor fear but that to- 
day 
Thou shalt receive the penitent thief's 

award. 
And be with Christ the Lord in Paradise. 
Remember how God made the fierce fiie 

seem 
To those three children like a pleasant dew 
Remember, too. 

The triumph of St. Andrew on his cross, 
The patience of St. Lawrence in the fire. 
Thus, if tl'.ou call on God and all the saints, 
CJod will beat down the fury of the flame, 
Or give thee saintly strength to undergo. 
And for thy soul shall masses here be sung 
By every priest in Oxford. Pray for him. 
Crantner. Ay, one and all, dear brothers, 

pray for me ; 
Pray with one breath, one heart, one soul, for 

me. 
Cole- And now, lest any one among you 

doubt 
The man's conversion and remorse of heart, 
Yourselves shall hear him speak. Speak, 

Master Cranmer, 
Fulfil your promise made me, and proclaim 
Your true undoubted faith, that all may hear. 
Crantner. And that I will. O God, 

Father of Heaven ! 
O Son of God, Redeemer of the world ! 

Holy Ghost ! proceeding from them both. 
Three persons and one God, have mercy on 

me. 
Most miserable sinner, wretched man. 

1 have offended against heaven and earth 
More grievously than any tongue can tell. 
Then whither should I flee for any help? 
I am ashamed to lift my ej'es to heaven, 
And I can find no refuge upon earth- 
Shall I despair then?— God forbid ! O God, 
For thou art merciful, refusing none 

That come to Thee lor succor, unto Thee, 
Therefore, I come ; humble myself lo Thee ; 
Saying, O Lord God, although my sins be 

great. 
For thy great mercy have mercy ! O God 

the Son, 
Not for slight faults alone, when thou be- 

camest 
Man in the Flesh, was the great mystery 

wrought ; 
O God the Father, not for little sins 
Didst thou yield up thy Son lo human death . 
But for the greatest sin that can be sinn'd, 
Yea, even such as mine, incalculable. 
Unpardonable, — sin against the light, 
The truth of God, which I had proven and 

known. 
Thy mercy must be greater than all sin. 
Forgive me. Father, for no merit of mine, 



^68 



QUEEN MARY. 



But that Tliy name by man be glorified, 
And Thy most blessed Son's, who died for 

man. 
Good people, every man at time of death 
Would fain set forth some saying that may 

live 
After his death and better humankind ; 
For death gives life's last word a power to 

live. 
And, like the stone-cut epitaph, remain 
After the vanish'd voice, and speak to men. 
God grant me grace to glorify my God ! 
And first I say it is a grievous case, 
Many so dote upon this bubble world. 
Whose colors in a moment break and fly. 
They care for nothing else. What saith St. 

John : — 
" Love of this world is hatred against God." 
Again, I pray you all that, next to God, 
You do unnnumuringly and willingly 
Obey your King and Queen, and not for 

dread 
Of these alone, but from the fear of Him 
Whose ministers they be to govern you. 
Thirdly, I pray you all to love together 
Like brethren ; yet what hatred Christian 

men 
Bear to each other, seeming not as brethren. 
But mortal foes ! But do you good to all 
As much as in you lieth. Hurt no man more 
Than you would harm your loving natural 

brother 
Of the same roof, same breast. If any do, 
Albeit he think himself at home with God, 
Of this be sure, he is whole worlds away. 
Protestant Murmurs. What sort of broth- 
ers then be those that lust 
To burn each other? 

Williams. Peace among yon, there. 

Cranmer. Fourthly, to those that own 

exceeding wealth. 
Remember that sore saying spoken once 
By Him that was the truth, " how hard it is 
For the rich man to enter into Heaven " ; 
Let all rich men remember that hard word. 
I have not time for more : if ever, now 
Let them flow forth in charity, seeing now 
The poor so many, and all food so dear. 
Long have 1 lain in prison, yet have heard 
Of all their wretchedness. Give to the poor. 
Ye give to God. He is with us in the poor. 

And now, and forasmuch as I have come 
To the last end of life, and thereupon 
Hangs ail my past, and all my life to be. 
Either to live with Christ in Heaven with 

j°y' . . 

Or to be still m pain with devils in hell ; 
And, seeing in a moment, I shall find 

\Pointing ufiivards. 
Heaven or else hell ready to swallow me, 

{Pointing downwards- 
I shall d^lare to you my very faith 
Without all color. 
Cole. Hear him, my good brethren. 

Craiitner I do believe in God, Father of 
all; 
In every article of the Catholic faith. 



And every syllable taught us by our Lord, 
His prophets, and apostles, in the Testa- 
ments, 
Both Old and New. 

Cole. Be plainer. Master Cranmer. 

Cranmer. And now I come to the great 
cause that weighs 
Upon my conscience more than any thing 
Or said or done in all my life by me ; 
For there be writings I have set abroad 
Against the truth I knew within my heart, 
Written for fear of death, to save my life. 
If that might be ; the papers by my hand 
Sign'd srace my degradation — by this hand 
\H aiding out his right hand. 
Written and sign'd — 1 here renounce them 

all ; 
And, since my hand offended, having written 
Against my heart, my hand shall lirst be 

burnt, 
So I may come to the fire. [Dead silence- 
Protestant murmurs- 
First Protestant. I knew it would be so. 
Second Protestant- Our prayers are 

heard ! 
Tliird Protestant. God bless him ! 
Catholic Murmurs- Out upon him I out 
upon him ! 
Liar ! dissembler 1 traitor ! to the fire ! 
Williams {raising his voice). You know 
that you recanted all you said 
Touching the sacrament in that same book 
You wrote against my Lord of Winchester ; 
Dissemble not ; play the plain Christian 
man. 
Cranmer. Alas, my Lord, 
I have been a man loved plainness all my 

life; 
I did dissemble, but the hour has come 
For utter truth and plainness; wherefore, I 

say, 
I hold by all I wrote within that book. 
Moreover, 

As for the Pope I count him Antichrist, 
With all his devil's doctrines ; and refuse, 
Reject him, and abhor him. I have said. 
Cries {on alt sides)- Pull him down I 

Away with him. ; 

Cole. Ay, stop the heretic's mouth. Hale ' 

him away. > 

H'illiains- Harm him not, harm him not, \ 

have him to the fire. ; 

[Cka'^kkk goes Old between Two Fri- J 

ars, smiling; hands are reached to \ 

him from the crowd. Lord Wii.- { 

LiAM How.\RD rt«rf Lord Paget rt'-£' | 

left alone in tlie church- i 

Paget. The nave and aisles all empty as | 

a fool's jest ! « 

No, here 's Lord William Howard. What, I 

my Lord, I 

You have not gone to see the burning ? _ I 

Howard. Fie ! I 

To stand at ease, and stare as at a show, 

And watch a good man burn. Never again. 



QUEEN MARY. 



369 



I saw the deaths of Latimer and Ridley. 
Moreover tho' a Catholic, I would not, 
For the pure honor ot our common nature, 
Hear what I might — another recantation 
Of Cranmer at the stake. 

J'a^et. You 'd not hear that. 

He pass'd out smiling, and he walk'd up- 
right ; 
His eye was like a soldier's, whom the gen- 
eral _ ! 
He looks to and he leans on as his God, ' 
Hath rated for some backwardness and 

bidd'n him 
Charge one against a thousand, and the man 
Hurls his soil'd life against the pikes and 
dies. 
Howard. Yet that he might not after all 
those papers 
Of recantation yield again, who knows? 
I'aget. Papers of recantation, think you 
then 
That Cranmer read all papers that he sign'd? 
Or sign'd all those they tell us that he sign'd ? 
Nay, I trow not : and you shall see, my 

Lord, 
That howsoever hero-like the man 
Dies in the fire, this Bonner or another 
Will in some lying fashion misreport 
His endmg to the glory of their church. 
And you saw Lamner and Ridley die? 
Latimer was eighty, was he not? his best 
Of life was over ihen. 

Howard. His eighty years. 

Look'd somewhat crooked on him in his 

frieze ; 
But after they had stript him to his shroud, 
He stood upright, a lad of twenty-one. 
And galher'd with his hands the starting 

flame. 
And wash'd his hands and all his face there- 
in, 
Until the powder suddenly blew him dead. 
Ridley was longer burning ; but he died 
As manfully and boldly, and 'fore God, 
I know them heretics, but right English ones. 
If ever, as heaven grant, we clash with Spain, 
Our Ridley-soldiers and our Latimer-sailors 
Will teach her something. 

Paget. Your mild Legate Pole 

Will tell ynu that the devil helpt them thro' 
it. ' 
[/J murmur of the Crowd in the dis- 
tance. 
Hark, how those Roman wolfdogs howl and 
bay him. 
Howard. Might it not be the other side 
rejoicing 
In his brave end ? 

Paget. They are too crush'd, too broken. 
They can hut weep in silence. 

Ho-suard. Ay, ay, Paget, 

They have brought it in large measure on 

themselves. 
Have I not heard them mock the blessed 

Host 
in songs so lewd, the beast might roar his 
claim 



To being in God's image, more than they? 
Have I not seen the gamekeeper, the groom, 
Gardener, and huntsman, in the parson's 

place. 
The parson from his own spire swung out 

dead. 
And Ignorance crying in the streets, and all 

men 
Regarding her? I say they have drawn the 

tire 
On their own heads : yet, Paget, I do hold 
The Catholic, if he have the greater right. 
Hath been the crueller. 

Paget. Action and re-action. 

The miserable see-saw of uur child-world, 
Make us despise it at odd hours, my Lord. 
Heaven help (hat this re-action not re-act. 
Yet fiercelier under Queen Elizabeth, 
So that she come to rule us 
Howard. The world 's mad. 

Paget. My Lord, the world is like a 
drunken man. 
Who cannot move straight to his end — but 

reels 
Now to the right, then as far to the left, 
Push'd by the crowd beside — and under- 
foot 
An earthquake ; for since Henry for a 

doubt — 
Which a voung lust had clapt upon the 

back'. 
Crying, " Forward," — set our old church 

rocking, men 
Have hardly known what to believe, or 

whether 
They should believe in any thing ; the cur- 
rents 
So shift and change, they see not how they 

are borne. 
Nor whither. I conclude the King a beast ; 
Verily a lion if you will — the world 
A most obedient beast and fool — myself 
Half beast and fool as appertaining to it ; 
Altho' your Lordshif) hath as little of each 
Cleaving to your original Adam-clay, 
As may be consonant with mortality. 

Hoivar.{. We talk and Cranmer suffers. 
The kindliest man I ever knew ; see, see, 
I speak of him in the past. Unhappy land ! 
Hard-natured Queen, half Spanish in her- 
self, 
And grafted on the hard-grain'd stock of 

Spain — 
Her life, since Philip left her, and she lost 
Her fierce desire of bearing him a child. 
Hath, like a brief and bitter v.'inter's day. 
Gone narrowing down and darkening to a 

close. 
There will be more conspiracies, I fear. 
Pa^et. Ay, av, beware of France. 
Howard. ' O Paget, Paget ! 

I have seen heretics of the poorer sort. 
Expectant of the rack from day to day. 
To whom the fire were welcome, lying 

chain'd 
In breathless dungeons over steaming sew- 
ers. 



37° 



QUEEN MARY. 



Fed with rank bread that crawl'd upon the 

tongue, 
And putrid water, every drop a worm. 
Until they died of rotted Hmbs ; and then 
Cast on the dunghill naked, and become 
Hideously alive again from head to heel. 
Made even the carrion-nosing mongrel vomit 
With hate and horror. 

Paget. Nay, you sicken me 

To hear you. 

Howard. Fancy-sick ; these things are 
done, 
Done right against the promise of this Queen 
Twice given. 

Paget. No faith with heretics, my Lord ! 
Hist ! there be two old gossips — Gospellers, 
I take it ; stand behind the pillar here ; 
I warrant you they talk about the burning. 

Enter Two Old Women. Joan, ami after 
her Tib. 

Joan. Why, it be Tib. 

Tib. I cum behind tha, gall, and could n't 
make tha hear. Eh, the wind and the wet ! 
What a day, what a day ! nigh upo' judg- 
ment daay loike. Pwoaps be pretty things, 
Joan, but they wunt set i' the Lords' cheer 
o' that daay. 

Joan- 1 must set down myself, Tib ; it be 
a var waay vor my owld legs up vro' Islip. 
Eh, my rheumatizy be that bad howiver be 
I to win to the burnin'. 

Tib. I should saay 't wur ower by now. 
I 'd ha' been here avore, but Dumble wur 
blow'd wi' the wind, and Duinble 's the best 
milcher in Islip. 

Joan. Our Daisy 's as good 'z her. 

Tib. Noa, Juan. 

Joan. Our Daisy's butter 's as good 'z 
hern. 

Tib- Noa, Joon. 

Joan. Our Daisy's cheeses be better. 

Tib. Noa. Joan. 

Joan. Eh, then ha' thy waay wi' me, 
Tib ; ez thou hast wi' thy owld man. 

Tib. Ay, Joan, and my owld man wur up 
and awaay betimes wi' dree hard eggs for a 
good pleace at the burnin' ; and barrin' the 
wet, Hodge 'ud ha' been a-harrowin' o' 
white peasen i' the outfield — and barrin' the 
wind, Dumble wur blow'd wi' the wind, so 'z 
we was forced to stick her, but we fetched 
her round at last. Tliank the Lord there- 
vore. Dumble 's the best milcher in Islip. 

Joan. Thou 's thy way wi' man and beast, 
Tib. I wonder at tha', it beats me ! Eh, 
but I do know ez Pwoaps and vires be bad 
things ; tell 'ee now, I heerd summat as 
summun towld summun o' owld Bishop 
Gardiner's end; therewur an owld lord a-cum 
to dine wi' un, and a wur so owld a could n't 
bide vor his dinner, but a had to bide how- 
somiver, vor " I wunt dine," says my Lord 
Bishop, says he, " not till I hears ez Lati- 
mer and Ridley be a-vire " ; and so they 
bided on and on till vour o' the clock, till 
his man cum in post vro' here, and tells un 



ez the vire has tuk holt, " Now," says th« 
bishop, says he, "we'll gwo to dinner"; 
and the owld lord fell to 's meat wi' a will, 
God bless un ; but Gardiner wur struck down 
like by the hand o' God avore a could taste 
a mossel, and a set him all a-vire, so 'z the 
tongue on un cum a-Iolluping out o' 'is 
mouth as black as a rat. Thank the Lord, 
therevore. 

Paget. The fools ! 

Tib. Ay, Joan ; and Queen Mary gwoes 
on a-burnin' and a burnin', to git her baaby 
born ; but all her burnin's 'ill never burn out 
the hypocrisy that makes the water in her. 
There 's nought but the vire of God's hell ez 
can burn out that. 

Joan. Thank the Lord, therevore. 

Paget. The fools ! 

Tib. Aburnin', and a-burnin', and a- 
niakin' o' volk madder and madder ; but tek 
thou my word vor 't, Joan — and I bean't 
wrong not twice i' ten year — the burnin' o' 
the owld archbishop 'ill bum the Pwoap out 
o' this 'ere land vor iver and iver. 

Howard. Out of the chmch, you brace of 
cursed crones. 
Or I will have yon duck'd. [Women hurry 

out.) Said I not right? 
For how should reverend prelate or throned 

prince 
Brook for an hour such brute malignity ? 
Ah, what an acrid wine has Luther brew'd ! 

Paget. Pooh, pooh, my Lord ! poor gar- 
rulous country-wives. 
Buy you their cheeses, and they '11 side with 

you ; 
You cannot judge the liquor from the lees. 

Howard. I think that in some sort we 
may. But see. 

Enter Peters. 
Peters, my gentleman, an honest Catholic, 
Who follow'd with the crowd to Cranmer's 

fire. 
One that would neither misreport nor lie, 
Not to gain paradise : no, nor if the Pope 
Charged him to do it — he is white as death. 
Peters, how pale you look I you bring the 

smoke 
Of Cranmer's burning with you. 

Peters. Twice or thrice 

The smoke of Cranmer's burning wrapt me 
round. 

Howard. Peters, you know me Catholic, 
but English. 
Did he die bravely ? Tell me that, or leave 
All else untold. 

Peters. My Lord, he died most bravely. 

Howard. Then tell me all. 

Paget. Ay, Master Peters, tell us. 

Peters. You saw him how he past among 
the crowd ; 
And ever as he walk'd the Spanish friars 
Still plied him with entreaty and reproach : 
But Cranmer, as the helmsman at the helm 
Steers, ever looking to the happy haven 
Where he shall rest at night, moved m his 
death ; 



QUEEN MARY. 



%Ti- 



And I could see that many silent hands 
Came from the Ciovvd and met his own ; and 

thus, 
When we had come where Ridley burnt with 

Latimer, 
He, with a cheerful smile, as one whose mind 
Is all made up, in liasle put off the rags 
They had mock'd his misery with, and all in 

white, 
His long white beard, which he had never 

shaven 
Since Henry's death, down-sweeping to the 

chain. 
Wherewith they bound him to the stake, he 

stood. 
More like an ancient father of the Church, 
'ilian heretic of these times; and still the 

friars 
Plied him, but Cranmer only shook his head. 
Or answer'd them in smiling negatives ; 
Whereat Lord Williams gave a sudden cry: — 
"Make short! make short!" and so they lit 

the wood. 
Then Craiimer lifted his left hand to heaven, 
And thrust his right into the bitter flame : 
And crying, in his deep voice, more than 

once, 
"This hath offended — this unworthy 

hand ! " 
So held it till it all was burn'd, before 
The flame had reach'd his body ; I stood 

near — 
Mark'd him — he never uttered moan of 

pain : 
He never stirr'd or writhed, but, like a statue, 
Unmoving in the greatness of the flame. 
Gave up the ghost ; and so past martyr- 
like— 
Martyr I may not call him — past -t- but 

whither? 
Paget. To purgatory, man, to purgatory. 
Peters, Nay, but, my Lord, he denied 

purgatory. 
Paget. Why then to heaven, and God 

ha' mercy on him. 
Howard. Paget, despite his fearful her- 
esies, 
I loved the man, and needs must moan for 

him: 
O Cranmer ! 

Paget. Rut your moan is useless now : 
Come out, my Lord, it is a world of fools. 

{Exeunt. 



ACT V. 

SCENE L — LONDON. HALL IN 
THE PALACE. 

Queen, Sir Nicholas Heath. 
Heath. Madam, 
I do assure you, tliat it mitst be look'd to : 
Calais is but ill-garrison'd, in Guisnes 
Are scarce two hundred men, and the French 

fleet 
Rule in the narrow seas. It must be look'd 
to. 



If war should fall between yourself and 

France : 
Or you will lose your Calais. 

Mary. It shall be look'd to; 

I wisli you a good-morning, good Sir 

Nicholas : 
Here is the King. [Exit Heatm. 

Enter Philip. 
Philip. Sir Nicliolas tells you true, 

And you must look to Calais when I go. 
Alary. Go ! must you go, indeed — 
again — so soon ? 
Why, nature's licensed vagabond, the 

swallow. 
That might live always in the sun's warm 

heart. 
Slays longer here in our poor north than 

you : — • 
Knows where he nested — ever comes again. 
Philip. And, Madam, so shall 1. 
Mary. O, will you? will you? 

I am faint with fear that you will come no 
more. 
Philip. Ay, ay ; but many voices call me 

hence. 
Mary. Voices — I hear unhappy ru- 
mors — nay, 
I say not, I believe. What voices call you 
Dearer than mine that should be dearest to 

you? 
Alas, my Lord ! what voices and how many ? 
Philip. The voices of Castile and Ara- 
gon, 
Granada, Naples, Sicily, and Milan, — 
The voices of Franche-Comtd, and the Neth- 
erlands, 
The voices of Peru and Mexico, 
Tunis, and Oran, and the Philippines, 
And all the fair spice-islands of the East. 
Mary {admiringly). You are the might- 
iest monarch upon earth, 
I but a little Queen : and so, indeed. 
Need you the more ; and wherefore could 

you not 
Helm the huge vessel of your state, my 

liege. 
Here, by the side of her who loves you 
most ? 
Philip. No, Madam, no ! a candle in the 
sun 
Is all but smoke — a star beside the moon 
Is all but lost ; your people will not crown 

me — 
Your people are as cheerless as your clime ; 
Hate me and mine : witness the brawls, the 

gibbets. 
Here swings a Spaniard — there an English- 
man ; 
The peoples are unlike as their complexion ; 
Yet will I be your swallow and return — 
But now I cannot bide. 

Mary. Not to help me ? 

They hate tne also for my love to you, 
My Philip; and these judgments on the 

land — 
Harvestless autiimus, horribla agues, 
plague — 



372 



QUEEN MARY. 



Philip. The blood and sweat of heretics 
at the stake 
Is God's best dew upon the barren field. 
Burn more ! 
Mary. I will, I will ; and you will stay. 
Philip. Have 1 not said? Madam, I came 
to sue 
Your Council and yourself to declare war. 
Mary. Sir, there are many English in 
your ranks 
To help your battle. 

Philip. So far, good. I say 

I came to sue your Council and yourself 
To declare war against the King of France. 
Mary. Not to see nie .-' 
Philip. Ay, Madam, to see you. 

Unalterably and pesteringly fond ! [Aside- 
But, soon or late you must have war with 

France ; 
King Henry warms your traitors at his 

hearth. 
Carew is there, and Thomas Stafford there. 
Courtenay, belike — 
Mary. A fool and featherhead 1 

Philip. Ay, but they use his name. In 
brief, this Henry 
Stirs up your land against you to the intent 
That you may lose your English heritage. 
And then, your Scottish namesake marrying 
The Dauphin, he would weld France, Eng- 
land, Scotland, 
Into one sword to hack at Spain and me. 
Mary. And yet the Pope is now col- 
leagued with France ; 
You make your wars upon him down in 

Italy: — 
Philip, can that be well? 

Philip. Content you, Madam ; 

You must abide my judgment, and my fa- 
ther's, 
Who deems it a most just and holy war. 
The Pope would cast the Spaniard out of 

Naples : 
He calls us worse than Jews, Moors, Sara- 
cens. 
The Pope has push'd his horns beyond his 

mitre — 
Beyond his province. Now, 
Duke Alva will but touch him on the horns. 
And he withdraws ; and of his holy head — 
For Alva is true son of the true church — 
No hair is harm'd. Will you not help me 
here ? 
Mary. Alas ! the Council will not hear of 
war. 
They say your wars are not the wars of 

England. 
They will not lay more taxes on a land 
So hunger-nipt and wretched ; and you know 
The crown is poor. We have given the 

church-lands back : 
The nobles would not ; nay, they clapt their 

hands 
Upon their swords when ask'd ; and there- 
fore God 
Is hard upon the people. What 's to be 
done? 



Sir, I will move them in your cause again, 
And we will raise us loans and subsidies 
Among the merchants; and Sir Thomas 

Gresham 
Will aid us. There is Antwerp and the 
Jews. 
Philip. Madam, my thanks. 
Alary. And you will stay your going? 

Philip. And further to discourage and 
lay lame 
The plots of France, altho' you love her not, 
You must proclaim Elizabeth your heir. 
She stands between you and the Queen of 
Scots. 
Mary. The Queen of Scots at least is 

Catholic. 
Philip. Ay, Madam, Catholic ; but I will 
not have 
The King of France the King of England 
too. 
Mary. But she 's a heretic, and, when I 
am gone, 
Brings the new learning back. 

Philip. It must be done. 

You must proclaim Elizabeth your heir, 
Alary. Then it is done ; but you will stay 
your going 
Somewhat beyond your settled purpose? 
Philip. No ! 

Mary. What, not one day ? 
Philip. You beat upon the rock 

Alary. And I am broken there. 
Philip. Is this a place 

To wail in, Madam? what ! a public hall. 
Go in, I pray you. 

Mary. Do not seem so changed. 

Say go ; but only say it lovingly. 
Philip. You do mistake. 1 am not one 
to change. 
I never loved you more. 

Alary. Sire, I obey you. 

Come quickly. 
Philip. Ay. [Exit Mary. 

Enter Count de Feria. 
Feria {aside). The Queen in tears. 

Philip. Feria ! 

Hast thou not mark'd — come closer to 

mine ear — 
How doubly aged this Queen of ours hath 

grown 
Since she lost hope of bearing us a child? 
Feria. Sire, if your Grace hath mark'd it, 

so have I. 
Philip. Hast thou not likewise mark'd 
Elizabeth, 
How fair and royal — like a Queen, indeed ? 
Feria. Allow me the same answer as be- 
fore — 
That if your Grace hath mark'd her, so 
have I. 
Philip. Good, now ; methinks my Queen 
is like enough 
To leave me by and by. 
Feria. To leave you, sire ? 

Philip. I mean not like to live. Eliza- 
beth — 



QUEEN MARY. 



373 



To Philibert of Savoy, as you know. 
We meant to wed her ; but I am not sure 
She will not serve me better — so my Queen 
Would leave me — as — my wife. 

Feria. Sire, even so. 

Fkilip. She will not have Prince Phili- 
bert of Savoy. 

Feria. No, sire. 

Fliilip. 1 have to pray you, some odd 
time, 
To sound the Princess carelessly on this ; 
Not as from me, but as your fantasy ; 
And tell me how she takes it. 

Feria. Sire, I will. 

Philip. I am not certain but that Phili- 

! ''^" 

I Shall be the man ; and I shall urge his suit 

I Upon the Queen, because I am not certain : 

! You understand, Feria. 

I Feria. Sire, I do. 

Philip. And if you be not secret in this 
matter, 
You understand me there, too ? 
Feria. Sire, I do. 

Philip. You must be sweet and supple, 
like a Frenchman. 
She is none of those who loathe the honey- 
comb. \Exit Feria. 
Enter Renard. 
Renard. My liege, I bring you goodly 

tidings. 
Philip. Well. 

Renard. There will be war with France, 
at last, my liege ; 
Sir Thomas Stafford, a bull-headed ass, 
Sailing from France, with thirty English- 
men, 
Hath taken Scarboro' Castle, north of York ; 
Proclaims himself protector, and affirms 
The Queen has forfeited her right to reign 
Ry marriage with an alien — other things 
As idle ; a weak Wyatt ! Little doubt 
This buzz will soon be silenced ! but the 

Council 
(I have talk'd with some already) are for 

war. 
This is the fifth conspiracy hatch'd in 

France ; 
They show their teeth upon it ; and your 

Grace, 

Sn you will take advice of mine, should stay 

Yet for a while, to shape and guide the event. 

Philip. Good ! Renard, I will stay then. 

Renard. Also, sire, 

Might I not say — to please your wife, the 

Queen ? 

Philip. Ay, Renard, if you care to put it 

so. [Exeunt. 

SCENE II.— A ROOM IN THE PAL- 
ACE. 

Mary aW Cardinal Pole. Lady Clar- 
ence and Alice in the background. 
Mary. Reginald Pole, what news hath 
plagued thy heart? 
What makes thy favor like the bloodless head 



Fall'n on the block, and held up by the hair? 
Philip? — 

Pole. No, Philip is as warm in life 
As ever. 

Mary. Ay, and then as cold as ever. 
Is Calais taken ? 

Pole. Cousin, there hath clianced 

A sharper harm to England and to Rome, 
'I'han Calais takffn Julius the Third 
Was ever just, and mild, and fatherlike ; 
But this new Pope Caraffa, Paul the Foiu lli. 
Not only reft me of that legateship 
Which Julius gave me, and the legateship 
Annex'd to Canterbury — nay, but worse — 
And yet 1 must obey the holy father. 
And so must you, good cousin ; — worse than 

all, 
A passing bell toll'd in a dying ear — 
He hath cited me to Rome, for heresy, 
Before his Inquisition. 

Mary. I knew it, cousin. 

But held from you all papers sent by Rome, 
That you might rest among us, till the 

Pope, 
To compass which I wrote myself to Rome, 
Reversed his doom, and that you might not 

seem 
To disobey his Holiness. 

Pole. He hales Philip ; 

He is all Italian, and he hates the Spaniard ; 
He cannot dream that / advised the war; 
He strikes thro' me at Philip and yourself. 
Nay, but I know it of old, he hates me too ; 
So brands me in the stare of Christendom 
A heretic ! 

Now, even now, when bow'd before my time. 
The house half-ruin'd ere the lease be out ; 
When I should guide the Church in peace at 

home. 
After my twenty years of banishment, 
And all my lifelong labor to uphold 
The primacy — a heretic. Long ago, 
When I was ruler in the patrimony, 
I was too lenient to the Lutheran, 
And I and learned friends among ourselves 
Would freely canvass certain Lutheranisins. 
What then, he knew I was no Lutheran. 
A heretic ! 

He drew this shaft against me to the head. 
When it was thought I might be chosen 

Pope, 
But then withdrew it. In full consistory. 
When I was made Archbishop, he approved 

me. 
And how should he have sent me Legate 

hither, 
Deeming me heretic ? and what heresy since ? 
But he was evermore mine enemy, 
And hates the .Spaniard — fiery-choleric, 
A drinker of black, strong, volcanic wines. 
That ever make him fierier. I, a heretic ! 
Your Highness knows that in pursuing heresy 
1 have gone beyond your late Lord Chan- 
cellor, — 
He cried Enough ! enough .' before his 

death. — 
Gone beyond him and mine own natural man 



374 



QUEEN MARY. 



rit was God's cause) ; so far they call me now, 
The scourge and butcher of their English 
church. 
Mary. Have courage, your reward is 

Heaven itself. 
Pole. They groan amen ; they swarm into 
the fire 
Like flies — tor what? no dogma. They know 

nothing, 
They burn for nothing. 
Mary. You have done your best. 

Pole. Have done my best, and as a faith- 
ful son, 
That all day long hath wrought his father's 

work. 
When back he comes at evening hath the 

door 
Shut on him by the father whom he loved, 
His early follies cast into his teeth, 
.And the poor son turn'd out into the street 
To sleep, to die — I shall die of it, cousin. 

Mary. I pray you be not so disconsolate ; 
I still will do mine utmost with the Pope. 
Poor cousin. 

Have I not been the fast friend of your life 
Since mine began, and it was thought we two 
Might make one flesh, and cleave unto each 

other 
As man and wife. 

Pole. Ah, cousin, I remember 

How 1 would dandle you upon my knee 
At lisping-age. I watch'd you dancing once 
With your huge father ; he look'd the Great 

Harry, 
You but his cockboat ; prettily you did it. 
And innocently. No — we were not made 
One flesh in happiness, no happiness here; 
But now we are made one flesh in misery ; 
Our bridemaids are not lovely — Disappoint- 
ment, 
Ingratitude, Injustice, Evil-tongue, 
Labor-in-vain. 

Mary. Surely, not all in vain. 

Peace, cousin, peace 1 1 am sad at heart 
myself. 
Pol:. Our altar is a mound of dead men's 
clay. 
Dug from the grave that yawns for us be- 
yond ; 
And there is one Death stands behind the 

Groom, 
And there is one Death stands behind the 
Bride — 
Mary. Have you been looking at the 

"Dance of Death " ? 
Pole. No ; but these libellous papers 
which I found 
Strewn in your palace. Look you here — 

tlie Pope 
Pointing at me with " Pole, the heretic. 
Thou hast burnt others, do thou burn thyself, 
Or I will burn thee " and this other ; see ! — 
" We pray continually for the death 
Of our accursed Queen and Cardinal Pole." 
This last — I dare not read it her. [Aside- 
Mary. Away ! 
Why do you bring me these ? 



I thought you knew me better. I never 

read, 
I tear them ; they come back upon my 

dreams. 
The hands that write them should be burnt 

clean off 
As Cranmer's, and the fiends that utter them 
Tongue-torn with pincers, lash'd to death, or 

lie 
Famishing in black cells, while famish'd 

rats 
Eat them alive. Why do they bring rae 

these ? 
Do you mean to drive me mad? 

Pole. I had forgotten 

How these poor libels trouble you. Your 

pardon 
Sweet cousin, and farewell ! " O bubble 

world, 
Whose colors in a moment break and fly ! " 
Why, who said that? I know not — true 
enough ! 
[Puis Jip the papers, all but tlie last, 
■which falls. Exit Pole. 
Alice. If Cranmer's spirit were a mocking 
one. 
And heard these two, there might be sport 
for him. [Aside. 

Mary. Clarence, they hate me ; even 
while I speak 
There lurks a silent dagger, listening , 

In some dark closet, some long gallery, 

drawn, 
And panting for my blood as I go by. 
Lady Clarence. Nay, Madam, there be 
loyal papers too. 
And I have often found them. 
Mary. Find me one ! 

Lady Clarence. Ay, Madam ; but Sir 
Nicholas Heath, the Chancellor, 
Would see your Highness. 

A!ary. Wherefore should I see him? 

Lady Clarence. Well, Madam, he may 

bring you news from Philip. 
Mary. So, Clarence. 

Lady Cla}-ence. Let me first put up your 
hair ; 
It tumbles all abroad. 

Mary. And the gray dawn 

Of an old age that never will be mine 
Is all the clearer seen. No, no ; wliat mat- 
ters ? 
Forlorn I am, and let me look forlorn. 

Enter Sir Nicholas Heath. 

Heath. I bring your Majesty such griev- 
ous news 
I grieve to bring it. Madam, Calais is taken. 

Mary. What traitor spoke ? Here, let my 
cousin Pole 
Seize him and burn him for a Lutheran. 

Heath. Her Highness is unwell. I will 
retire. 

Lady Clarence. Madam, your chancellor, 
Sir Nicholas Heath. 

Mary. Sir Nicholas? I am stunn'd — 
Nicholas Heath ? 



QUEEN MARY. 



yis 



Methought some traitor smote me on the 

head. 
What said you, my good Lord, that our 

brave English 
Had sallied out from Calais and driven back 
The Frenchmen from their trenches? 

Heath. Alas ! no. 

That gateway to the mainland over which 
Our^flag halli floated for two hundred years 
Is France again. 

Mary. So ; but it is not lost — 

Not yet. Send out : let Kngland as of old 
Rise lionlike, strike hard and deep into 
The prey they are rending from her — ay, 

and rend 
The renders too. Send out, send out, and 

make 
Musters in all the counties ; gather all 
From sixteen years to sixty ; collect the fleet ; 
Let every craft that carries sail and gun 
Steer toward Calais. Guisnes is not taken 

yet? 
Heath. Guisnes is not taken yet. 
Mary. There yet is hope. 

Heath. Ah, Madam, but your people are 

so cold ; 
I do much fear that England will not care. 
Methinks there is no manhood left among 

us. 
Mary. Send out ; I am too weak to stir 

abroad ; 
Tell my mind to the Council — to the Par- 
liament ; 
Proclaim it to the winds. Thou art cold 

thyself 
To babble of their coldness. O would I 

were 
My father for an hour ! A way now — quick ! 
[Exit Heath. 
I hoped I had served God with ail my 

might ! 
It seems I have not. Ah ! much heresy 
Shelter'd in Calais. Saints, I have rebuilt 
Your shrines, set up your broken images ; 
Be comfortable to me. Suffer not 
That my brief reign in England be defamed 
Thro' all her angry chronicles hereafter 
P.y loss of Calais. Grant me Calais. Philip, 
We liave made war upon the Holy Father 
All for vour sake : what good could come of 

that ? 
Lady Clarence. No, Madam, not against 

the Holy Father; 
You did but help King Philip's war with 

France. 
Your troops were never down in Italy. 

Mary. I am a byword. Heretic and rebel 
Point at me and make merry. Philip gone ! 
And Calais gone ! Time that I were gone 

too ! 
Lady Clarence. Nay, if the fetid gutter 

had a voice 
And cried I was not clean, what should I 

care ? 
Or you, for heretic cries ? And I believe, 
Spite of ynur melancholy Sir Nicholas, 
Your England is as loyal as myself. 



Mary (seeing- the paper droptby Pole). 
There, there ! another paper ! Said 
you not 
Many of these were loyal? Shall I try 
If this be one of such ? 

Lady Clarence. Let it be, let it be. 

God pardon me ! I have never yet found 

one. [Aside. 

Mary [reads). " Your people hate you as 

your husband hates you." 

Clarence, Clarence, what have I done? what 

sin 
Beyond all grace, all pardon? Mother of 

God, 
Thou knowest never woman meant so well. 
And fared so ill in this disastrous world. 
My people hate me and desire my death. 
Lady Clarence. No, Madam, no. 
Alary. My husband hates me, and desires 

my death. 
Lady Clarence. No, Madam ; these are 

libels. 
Mary. I hate myself, and I desire my 

death. 
Lady Clarence. Long live your Majesty ! 
Shall Alice sing you 
One of her pleasant songs? Alice, my child. 
Bring us your lute. (Alice goes.) They 

say the gloom of Saul 
Was lighten'd by young David's harp. 

Mary. Toojoung! 

And never knew a Philip. {Reenter Alice.) 

Give tne the lute. 
He hates me ! 

(She sings.) 

Hapless doom of woman, bappy in betro'hinjj ! 
Beauty passes like a breath and love is lost in 

loathing: 
Low, my lute ; speak low, my lute, but say the 

world is nothing — 

Low, lute, low ! 
Love will hover round the flowers when they first 

awaken ; 
Love will fly the fallen leaf, and not be overtaken ; 
Low, my lute 1 oh low, ray lute ! we fade and are 

forsaken — 

Low, dear lute, low ! 

Take it away ! not low enough for me ! 
Alice. Your Grace hath a low voice. 
Mary. How dare you say it? 

Even for that he hates me. A low voice 
Lost in a wilderness where none can hear ! 
A voice of shipwreck on a shoreless sea ! 
A low voice from the dust and from the 

grave. ( Sitting- on the grojind. ) 
There, am I low enough now ? 
Alice. Good Lord ! how grim and ghastly 

looks her Grace, 
With both her knees drawn upward to her 

chin. 
There was an old-world tomb beside my 

father's, 
And this was open'd, and the dead were 

found 
Sitting, and in this fashion ; she looks a 

corpse. 

Enter Lady Magdalen Dacrbs. 



376 



QUEEN MARY. 



Lady Ulagdalen. Madam, the Count de 
Feria waits without, 
In hopes to see your Highness. 

Lady Claretue i^pohiting to Makv). Wait 
he must — 
Her trance again. She neither sees nor hears. 
And may not speak for hours. 

Lady Magdalen- Unhappiest 

Of Queens and wives and women. 

Alice {in the Joregroiaid with Lady 
Magdalen). And all along 
Of Phihp. 

Lady Magdalen. Not so loud ! Our Clar- 
ence there 
Sees ever such an aureole round the Queen, 
It gilds the greatest wronger of her peace, 
Who stands the nearest to her. 

Alice. Ay, this Philip ; 

I used to love the Queen with all my heart — 
God lielp me, but methinks I love her less 
F or such a dotage upon such a man. 
I would I were as tall and strong as you. 
Lady Magdalen. 1 seem lialf-shamed at 

times to be so tall. 
Alice. You are the stateliest deer in all 
the herd — 
Beyond his aim — but I am small and scan- 
dalous, 
And love to hear bad tales of Philip. 

Lady Magdalen. Why ? 

I never heard him utter worse of you 
Than that you were low-statured. 

Alice. Does he think 

Low stature is low nature, or all women's 
Low as his own ? 
Lady Magdalen. There you strike in the 
nail. 
This coarseness is a want of fantasy. 
It is the low man thinks the woman low ; 
Sin is loo dull to sec beyond himself 
Alice. Ah, Magdalen, sin is bold as well 
as dull. 
How dared he ? 
Lady Magdalen. Stupid soldiers oft are 
bold. 
Poor lads, they see not what the general sees, 
A risk of utter ruin. I am not 
Beyond his aim, or was not. 

A lice. Who ? Not you ? 

Tell, tell me : save my credit with myself. 

Lady Magdalen. 1 never breathed it to a 

bird in the eaves. 

Would not for all the stars and maiden moon 

Our drooping Queen should know ! In 

Hampton Court 
My window look'd upon the corridor ; 
And I was robing; — this poor throat of 

mine. 
Rarer than I should wish a man to see it, — 
When he we speak of drove the window back, 
And, like a thief, push'd in his royal hand ; 
But by God's providence a good stout staff 
Lay near me ; and you know me strong of 

arm ; 
I do believe I lamed his Majesty's 
For a day or two, tho', give the Devil his due, 
I never found he bore me any spite. 



Alice. I would she could have wedded 
that poor youth, 
My Lord of Devon — light enough, God 

knows. 
And mixt with Wyatt's rising — and the boy 
Not out of him ^ but neither cold, coarse, 

cruel. 
And more than all — no Spaniard. 

Lady Clarence. Not so loud. 

Lord Devon, girls ! what are you whispering 

here ? 

Alice. Pi obing an old state-secret — how 

it chanced 

That this young Earl was sent on foreign 

travel. 
Not lost his head. 
Lady Clarence. There was no proof 

against him. 
Alice. Nay, Madam; did not Gardiner 
intercept 
A letter which the Count de Noailles wrote 
To that dead traitor, Wyatt, wilh full proof 
Of Courtenay's treason? What became of 
that ? 
Lady Clarence. Some say that Gardiner, 
out of love for him. 
Burnt it, and some relate that it was lost 
When Wyatt sack'd the Chancellor's house 

in Southwark. 
Let dead things rest. 

Alice. Ay, and with him who died 

Alone in Italy. 

Lady Clarence. Much changed, I hear. 
Had put off levity and put gravcness on. 
The foreign courts report him in his man- 
ner 
Noble as his young person and old shield. 
It might be so — but all is over now ; 
He caught a chill in the lagoons o( Venice, 
And died in Padua. 

Mary {looking up suddenly). Died in the 

true faith .' 
Lady Clarence. Ay, Madam, happil)'. 
I\lary. Happier he than I. 

Lady Magdalen- It seems her Highness 
hath awaken'd I'hink you 
That I might dare to tell her that the Count — 
Mary. I will see no man hence forever- 
more. 
Saving my confessor and my cousin Pole. 
Lady Magdalen. It is tlie Count de 

Feria, my dear lady. 
Mary. What Count? 
Lady Magdalen. The Count de Feria, 
from his Majesty 
King Philip. 

Mary. Philip ! quick I loop up my hair ! 
Throw cushions on that seat, and make it 

throne-like. 
Arrange my dress — the gorgeous Indian 

shawl 
That Philip brought me in our happy days ! — 
That rovers all. So — am I somewhat 

Queenlike, 
Bride of the mightiest sovereign upon earth ? 
Lady Clarence. Ay, so your Grace would 
bide a moment yet. 



X 



QUEEN MARY. 



377 



Mary. No, no, he brings a letter. I may 
die 
Before I read it. Let me see him at once. 
Enter Count de Feria {kneels)- 
Feria. I trust your Grace is well. {A side) 

How her hand burns. 
Mary. I am not well, but it will better 
me, 
Sir Count, to read the letter which you 
bring. 
Feria. Madam, I bring no letter. 
Mary. How! no letter? 

Feria. His Highness is so vex'd with 

strange affairs — 
Mary. That his own wife is no affair of 

his. 
Feria. Nay, Madam, nay ! he sends his 
veriest love. 
And says, he will come quickly. 

Mary. Doth he, indeed.' 

You, sir, Ao you remember vi\\M.you said 
When last you came to England? 

Feria. Madam, I brought 

My King's congratulations ; it was hoped 
Your Highness was once more in happy state 
To give him an heir male. 

Mary. Sir, you said more ; 

You said he would come quickly. I had 

horses 
On all the road from Dover, day and night ; 
On all the road from Harwich, night and 

day ; 
But the child came not, and the husband 

came not : 
And yet he will come quickly. . . . Thou 

hast learnt 
Thy lesson, and I mine. There is no need 
For Philip so to shame himself again. 
Return, 
And tell him that I know he comes no 

more. 
Tell him at last I know his love is dead, 
And that I am in state to bring forth death — 
Thou art commission'd to Elizabeth, 
And not to me ! 

Feria. Mere compliments and wishes, | 

But shall I take some message from your 
Grace ? 
Mary. Tell her to come and close my dy- 
ing eyes, 
And wear my crown, and dance upon my 
grave. 
Feria. Then I may say your Grace will 
see your sister? 
Your Grace is too low-spirited. Air and 

sunshine. 
I would we had you, Madam, in our warm 

Spain. 
You droop in your dim London. 

Mary. Have him away, 

I .sicken of his readiness. 

Lady Clarence- My Lord Count, 

Her Highness is too ill for colloquy. 

Feria {kneels, and kisses Iter hand). I 

wish her Highness better. {Aside) 

How her hand burns. [Exeunt. 



SCENE 111.— A HOUSE NEAR 
LONDON. 
Elizabeth. Steward of the House- 
hold, Attendants. 
Elizabetli- There 's half an angel wrong'd 
in your account ; 
Methinks I am all angel, that I bear it 
Without more ruffling. Cast it o'er again. 
Ste2vard- I were whole devil if I wrong'd 
you. Madam. [E.iii Steward. 

A ttendant. The Count de Feria, from the 

King of Spain. 
Elizabeth. Ah ! — let him enter. Nay, 
you need not go ; [/'o /j^r Ladies. 
Remain within the chamber, but apart. 
We '11 have no private conference. Wel- 
come to England ! 

Enter Feria. 
Feria- Fair island star. 
Elizabeth. 1 shine ! What else. Sir Count ? 
Feria. As far as France, and into Philip's 
heart. 
My King would know if you be fairly served, 
And lodged, and treated. 

Elizabeth. You see the lodging, sir, 

1 am well-served, and am in every thing 
Most loyal and most grateful to the Queen. 
Feria. You should be grateful to my mas-, 
ter, too, 
He spoke of this ; and unto him you owe 
That Mary hath acknowledged you her heir. 
Elizabeth. No, not to her nor him ; but 
to the people. 
Who know my right, and love me, as I 

love 
The people ! whom God aid ! 

Feria. You will be Queen. 

And, were I Philip — 

Elizabeth. Wherefore pause you — what ? 
Feria. Nay, but I speak from mine own 
self, not him : 
Your royal sister cannot last ; your hand 
Will be much coveted ! What a delicate 

one ! 
Our Spanish ladies have none such — and 

there. 
Were you in Spain, this fine fair gossamer 

gold- 
Like sun-gilt breathings on a frosty dawn — 
That hovers round your shoulder — 

Elizabeth. Is it so fine? 

Troth, some have said so. 

Feria. — would be deemed a miracle. 
Elizabeth. Your Philip hath gold hair and 
golden beard, 
There must be ladies many with hair like 
mine. 
Feria. '^'^•ne few of Gothic blood have 
goldy hair. 
But none like yours. 
Elizabeth. 1 am happy you approve it. 
Feria. But as to Philip and your Grace — 
consider, — 
If such a one as you should match with Spain, 
What hinders but that Spain and England 
join'd, 



378 



QUEEN MARY. 



Should make the mightiest empire earth has 
known. 

Spain would be England on her seas, and 
England 

Mistress of the Indies. 
Elizabeth. It may chance, that England 

Will be the mistress of the Indies yet, 

Without the help of Spain. 

Feria. I mpossible ; 

Except you put Spain down. 

Wide of the mark ev'n for a madman's 
dream. 
Elizabeth. Perhaps ; but we have sea- 
men. Count de Feria, 

I take it that the King hath spoken to you ; 

But is Don Carlos such a goodly match 'i 
Feria. Don Carlos, Madam, is but twelve 

years old. 
Elizabeth. Ay, tell the King that I will 
muse upon it ; 

He is my good friend, and I would keep him 
so ; 

But — he would have me Catholic of Rome, 

And that I scarce can be ; and, sir, till now 

My sister's marriage, and my father's mar- 
riages, 

Make me full fain to live and die a maid. 

But I am much beholden to your King. 

Have you aught else to tell mc ? 
Feria. Nothing, Madam, 

Save that methought I gather'd from the 
Queen 

That she would see your Grace before she — 
died. 
Elizabeth. God's death ! and wherefore 
spake you not before ? 

We dally with our lazy moments here, 

And hers are number'd. Horses there, 
without ! 

I am much beholden to the King, your mas- 
ter. 

Why did you keep me prating? Horses, 
there ! \Exit Elizabeth, etc. 

Feria. So from a clear sky falls the thun- 
derbolt ! 

Don Carlos ? Madam, if you marry Philip, 

Then I and he will snafifle your "God's 
death," 

And break your paces in. and make you 
tame ; 

God's deatli, forsooth — you do not know 
King Philip. \_Exit. 

SCENE IV. — LONDON. BEFORE 
THE PALACE. 

A light burning ivithin. Voices of tlie 
night passing. 
First. Is not yon light in the Queen's 

chamber ? 

Second. Ay, 

They say she 's dying. 

First. So is Cardinal Pole. 

May the great angels join their wings, and . 

make 
Down for their heads to heaven ! 

Second. Amen. Come on. [Exeunt. 



Two Others. 

First. There's the Queen's light. I hear 
she cannot live. 

Seco/id. God curse her and her Legate ! 
Gardiner burns 
Already : but to pay them full in kind, 
The hottest hold m all the devil's den 
Were but a sort ot winter ; sir, in Guernsey, 
I vvatch'd a woman burn ; and i;i her agony 
The mother came upon her — a child was 

born — 
And, sir, tliey hurl'd it back into the firs. 
That, being but baptized in fire, the babe 
Might be in fire forever. Ah, good neighbor. 
There should be something fierier than fire 
To yield them their deserts. 

First. Amen to all 

You wish, and further. 

A Third Voice. Deserts ! , Amen to 
what? Whose deserts? Yours? You have 
a gold ring on your finger, and soft raiment 
about your body : and is not the woman up 
yonder sleeping after all she has done, in 
peace and quietness, on a soft bed, in a 
closed room, with light, fire, physic, tend- 
ance ; and I have seen the true men of 
Christ lying famine-dead by scores, and un- 
der no ceiling but the cloud that wept on 
them, not for them. 

First. Friend, tho' so late, it is not safe 
to preach. 
You had best go liome. What are you? 

Third. What am I ? One who cries con- 
tinually with sweat and tears to the Lord 
God that it would please Him out of His 
infinite love to break down all kingship and 
queenship, all priesthood and prelacy ; to 
cancel and abolish all bonds of human al- 
legiance, all the magistracy, all the nobles, 
and all the wealthy ; and to send us again, 
according to his promise, the one King, the 
Christ, and all things in common, as in the 
day of the first church, when Christ Jesus 
was King. 

First, i f ever I heard a madman, — let 's 
away ! 
Why, you long-winded — Sir, you go be- 
yond me. 
I pride myself on being moderate. 
Good-night! Go home ! P)esides, you curse 

so loud. 
The watch will hear you. Get you home at 
once. [Exeunt. 

SCENE v. — LONDON. A ROOM IN 
THE PALACE. 

A Gallery on one side. The moonlight 
streaming through a range of windows 
on the wall opposite. MAR^■. Lady 
Clarence, Lady Magdalen Dacres, 
Alice. Quf.en pacing the Gallery. A 
•writing-table in front. Queen cotnes 
to the table and writes and goes again, 
pacing the Gallery. 

Lady Clarence. Mine eyes are dim : what 
hath she written ? read. 



QUEEN MARY. 



379 



A lice. " I am dying, Philip ; come to 

me." 
Lady Magdalen. There — up and down, 

poor lady, up and down. 
Alice. And how her shadow crosses one 
by one 
The moonHght casements pattern'd on the 

wall, 
Following her hke her sorrow. She turns 
again. 
[Queen- sits and writes., and goes again- 
Lady Clarence. What hatli she written 

now ! 
Alice. Nothing ; but " come, come, 
come," and all awry. 
And blotted by her tears. This cannot last. 
[Queen retur?is. 
Mary. I whistle to the bird has broken 
ca,;je. 
And all in vain. [Sitting doivti- 

Calais gone — Guisnes gone, too — and 
Philip gone ! 
Lady Claren:e- Dear Madam, Philip is 
but at the wars ; 
I cannot doubt but that he comes again ; 
And he is with you in a measure still. 
I never look'd upon so fair a likeness 
As your great King in armor there, his hand 
Upon his helmet. 

[Pointing to the portrait of Philip on 
the -wall. 
Mary. Doth he not look noble ? 

I had heard of him in battle over seas. 
And I would have my warrior all in arms. 
He said it was not courtly to stand hel- 

meted 
Betore the Queen. He had his gracious 

moment 
Altho' you Ml not believe me. How he 

smiles 
As if he loved me yet ! 

Lady Clarence. And so he does. 

Mary. He never loved me — nay, he 
could not love me. 
It was his father's policy against France. 
I am eleven years older than he. 
Poor boy. [ Weeps. 

Alice. That was a lusty boy of twenty- 
seven ; [Aside. 
Poor enough m God's grace ! 

Mary. — And all in vain ! 

The Queen of Scots is married to the Dau- 
phin, 
And Charles, the lord of this low world is 

gone ; 
And all his wars and wisdoms past away; 
And in a moment 3 shall follow him. 

Lady Clarence. Nay, dearest Lady, see 

your good physician. 
Mary. Drugs — but he knows they can- 
not help me — says 
That rest is all — tells me I must not think — 
That I must rest — I shall rest by and by. 
Catch the wild cat, cage him, and when he 

springs 
And maims himself against the bars, say 
" rest " : 



Why, you must kill him if you would have 

him rest — 
Dead or alive you cannot make him happy. 
Lady Clarence. Your Majesty has lived 

so pure a life, 
And done such mighty things by Holy 

Church, 
I trust that God will make you happy yet. 
Mary. What is the strange thing happi- 
ness? Sit down here : 
Tell me thine happiest hour. 

Lady Clarence- I will, if that 

May make your Grace forget yourself a 

little. 
There runs a shallow brook across our field 
For twenty miles, where the black crow 

flies five. 
And doth so bound and babble all the 

way 
As if itself were happy. It was May-time, 
And I was walking with the man I loved. 
I loved him, but 1 thought I was not loved. 
And both were silent, letting the wild 

brook 
Speak for us — till he stoop'd and gather'd 

one 
From out a bed of thick forget-me-nots, 
Look'd hard and sweet at me, and gave it 

me, 
I took it, tho' I did not know I took it. 
And put it in my bosom, and all at once 
I felt his arms about me, and his lips — 

Mary. Q God ! I have been too slack ; 
There are Hot Gospellers even among our 

guards — 
Nobles we dared not touch. We have but 

burnt 
The heretic priest, workmen, and women 

and children. 
Wet, famine, ague, fever, storm, wreck, 

wrath, — 
We have so play'd the coward ; but by God's 

grace. 
We '!l follow Philip's leading, and set up 
The Holy Office here — garner the wheat. 
And burn the tares with unquenchable fite ! 
Burn ! — 

Fie, what a savor ! tell the cooks to close 
The doors of all the offices below. 
Latimer ! 

Sir, we are private with our women here — 
Ever a rough, blunt, and uncourtly fellow — 
Thou light a torch that never will go out ! 
'T is out — mine flames. Women, the Holy 

Father 
Has ta'en the legateship from our cousin 

Pole — 
Was that well done ? and poor Pole pines 

of it. 
As I do, to the death. I am but a woman, 
I have no power. — Ah, weak and meek old 

man. 
Sevenfold dishonor'd even in the sight 
Of thine own sectaries — No, no. No par- 
don ! — 
Why that was false : there is the right hand 

still 



380 



QUEEN MARY. 



Beckons me hence. 

Sir, you were burnt for heresy, not for trea- 
son. 
Remember lliat ! 't was I and Bonner did it, 
And Pole ; we are three to one — Have you 

found mercy there, 
Grant it me here : and see he smiles and 

goes. 
Gentle as in life. 

Alice. Madam, who goes? King Philip? 
Mary. No, Philip comes and goes, but 
never goes. 
Women, when I am dead. 
Open my heart, and there you will find 

written 
Two names, Philip and Calais ; open his, — 
So that he have one, — 
You will find Philip only, policy, policy, — 
Ay, worse than that — not one hour true to 

me ! 
Foul maggots crawling in a fester'd vice ! 
Adulterous to the very heart of Hell. 
Hast thou a knife? 
Alice. Ay, Madam, but o' God's mercy — 
Jilary. Fool, think'st thou I would peril 
mine own soul 
By slaughter of the body? I could not, 

girl, 
Not this way — callous with a constant stripe, 
Unwoundable. Thy knife ! 

Alice. Take heed, take heed ! 

The blade is keen as death. 

Ma>y. This Philip shall not 

Stare in upon me in my haggardness ; 
Old, miserable, diseased, 
Incapable of children. Come thou down. 
\Cuts Old the picUtre and throws it 
down. 
Lie there. ( Wails ) O God, 1 have killed 
my Philip. 
Alice. No, 

Madam, you have but cut the canvas out. 
We can replace it. 

Alary. All is well then ; rest — 

I will to rest ; he said, I must have rest. 

[Cries of" Elizabeth " in the street. 
Aery! Whnt'sthat? Elizabeth? revolt? 
A new Northumberland, another Wyatt? 
I 'il fight it on the threshold of the grave. 
Lady Clarence. Madam, your royal sis- 
ter comes to see you. 
Mary. I will not see her. 
Who knows if Boleyn's daughter be my 

sister? 
I will see none except the priest. Your 
arm. [Fo Lady Clarence. 

O Saint of Aragon, with that sweet worn 

smile 
Among thy patient wrinkles — Help me 
hence. [Exeunt. 

The Priest passes- Enter Elizabeth 
and Sir William Cecil. 
Elizabeth. Good counsel yours — 

No one in waiting? still, 
As if the chamberlain were Death himself! 
The room she sleeps in — is not this the way ? 



No, that way there are voices. Am I tCj 

late ? 
Cecil . . . God guide me lest I lose the way. 
[Exit Elizabeth. 
Cecil. Many points weather'd, many per- 
ilous ones. 
At last a harbor opens ; but therein 
Sunk rocks — they need fine steering — much 

it is 
To be nor mad, nor bigot — have a mind — 
Not let Priests' talk, or dream of worlds to 

be, 
Miscolor things about her — sudden touches 
For him, or him — sunk rocks ; no passion- 
ate faith — 
But — if let be — balance and compromise : 
Brave, wary, sane to the heart of her — a 

Tudor 
School'd by the shadow of death — a Bo- 

leyn, too. 
Glancing across the Tudor — not so well. 

Enter Alice. 
How is the good Queen now ? 

Alice. Away from Philip. 

Back in her childhood — prattling to her 

mother 
Of her betrothal to the Emperor Charles, 
And childlike-jealous of him again — and 

once 
She thank'd her father sweetly for his book 
Against that godless German. Ah, those 

days 
Were happy. It was never merry world 
In England, since the Bible came among 

us. 
Cecil. And who says that ? 
Alice. It is a saying among the Catholics. 
Cecil. It never will be merry world in 

England, 
Till all men have their Bible, rich and poor. 
Alice. The Queen is dying, or you dare 

not say it. 

Enter Elizabeth. 

Elizabeth. The Queen is dead. 
Cecil. Then here she stands ! my homage. 
Elizabeth. She knew nie, and acknowl- 
edged me her heir, 
Pray'd me to pay her debts, and keep the 

Faith : 
Then claspt the cross, and pass'd away in 

peace. 
I left her lying still and beautiful. 
More beautiful than in life. Why would 

you vex yourself. 
Poor sister ? Sir, I swear I have no heart 
To be your Queen. To reign is restless 

fence. 
Tierce, quart, and trickery. Peace is with 

the dead. 
Her life was winter, for her spring was 

nipt: 
And she loved much : pray God she be for- \ 

given. 
CecU. Peace with the dead, who never 

were at peace 1 



QUEEN MARY. 



381 



Yet she loved one so much — I needs must 

say — 
That never English monarch dying left 
England so little. 

kliiiibeth. But with Cecil's aid 

And others, if our person be secured 
From traitor stabs — we will make England 
great. 



Enter Pagei', and other Lords of the 
Council, Sir Ralph Hagenhall, etc. 
Lords. God save Elizabeth, the Queen 

of England ! 
BagcH/iall. God save the Crown : the Pa- 
pacy is no more. 
Paget (aside). Are we so sure of that ? 
Acclamation. God save the Queen ! 



382 HA ROLD. 



HAROLD. 

To His Excellency 
THE RIGHT HON. LORD LYTTON, 

VICEROY AND GOVERNOR-GENERAL OF INDIA. 

My DEAR Lord Lytton, — After old-world records, — such as the Bayeux tapestry and 
the Roman de Ron, — Edward Freemai)'s History of tlie Norman Conquest, and your 
father's Historical Romance treating of the same times, have been mainly helpful to me 
in writing this Drama. Your father dedicated his " Harold "to my father's brother ; allow 
me to dedicate my " Harold" to yourself A. Tennyson. 

SHOW-DAY AT BATTLE ABBEY, 1876. 

A GARDEN here — May breath and bloom of spring — 

The cuckoo yonder from an English elm 

Crying " with my false egg I overwhelm 

The native nest " : and fancy hears the ring 

Of harness, and that deathful arrow sing. 

And Saxon battle-axe clang on Nornian helm. 

Here rose the dragon-banner of our realm : 

Here fought, here fell, our Norman-slander'd king. 

O Garden blossoming out of English blood ! 

O strange hate-healer Time ! We stroll and stare 

Where might made right eight hundred years ago ; 

Might, right ? ay good, so all things make for good — 

But he and he, if soul be soul, are where 

Each stands full face with all he did below. 

DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

King Edward the Confessor. 

Stigand (created A rchbishop 0/ Canterbury by the A ntipope Benedict). 

Aldred {a rchbishop of York). 

The Norman Bishop of London. 

Harold, Earl of IVessex, afterwards King of England I 

To?,T\G, Earl of Northrtmbria | 

GuRTH, Earl of East Anglia \ {Sons of Godwin). 

Leofwin, Earl of Kent and Essex 

Wulfnoth 

Count William of Normandy. 

William Rufus. 

William Malet * [a Norman Noble). 

Edwin, Earl of Merc ia \ / c- r at^ r ji^ ■ \ 

MoRCAR, Earl of NorthHmhria after Tostig \ ^^""^ ¥ Alfgar of Mercia). 

Gamel [a N orthionbrian Thane). 

Guy {Count of Po7itkieu). 

Rolf {a Ponthieu Fisherman). 

Hugh Ma root {a Norjnati Afonk). 

OsGOD and Atwki.v.\c (Canons from IVnliham). 

The Queen {Edivard the Confessor'' s l^ife. Daughter of Godwin). 

Aldwytii (Daughter of Alfgar and IVidoiv of Griffyth., King of IVales). 

Edith {Ward of King Edward). 

Courtiers, Earls and Thanes, Men-at-Arms, Canons of Waltham, Fishernten, ttc. 
• Compster Heraldi, quidam partitn Normannus et Anglus. — Guy 0/ Amuns. 



HAROLD. 



383 



ACT I. 

SCENE I — LONDON. THE KING'S 
PALACE. 

(A comet seen through the open window.) 

Aldwyth, Gamel, Courtiers (talking 
together). 

First Courtier. Lo ! tliere once more — 
this is the seventh night ! 
Yon grimly - glaring, treble - brandish'd 

scoiircje 
Of England"! 

Second Courtier. Horrible ! 
First Courtier. Look yon, there 's a star 
That dances in it as mad with agony ! 

Third Courtier. Ay, like a spirit in bell 
who skips and flies 
To right and left, and cannot scape the flame. 
Second Cotirtter. Steam'd upward from 
the undescendible 
Abysm. 

First Courtier. Or floated downward from 
the throne 
Of God Almighty. 

Aldwyth. Gamel, son of Orm, 

What thinkest thou this means? 

Gamel. War, my dear lady I 

Aldwyth. Doth this affright thee .' 
Gamel. Mightily, my dear lady ! 

Aldwyth. Stand by me then, and look 
upon my face, 
Not on the comet. 

Enter Morcar. 

Brother ! why so pale ? 
Morcar. It glares in lieaven, it flares upon 
the Thames, 
The people are as thick as bees below, 
They hum like bees, — they cannot speak 

— for awe ; 
Look to the skies, then to the river, strike 
Their hearts, and hold their babies up to it. 
I think that they would Molochize them 

too. 
To have the heavens clear. 
Aldwyth. They fright not me. 

Enter Leofwin, a/ter him Gurth. 
Ask thou Lord Leofwin what he thinks of 
this ! 
Morcar. Lord Leofwin, dost thou believe, 
that these 
Three rods of blood-red fire up yonder mean 
The doom of England and the wrath of 
Heaven ? 
Bishop 0/ London (passing). Did ye not 
cast with bestial violence 
Our holy Norman bishops down from all 
Their thrones in England ? I alone remain. 
Why should not Heaven be wroth? 

Leo/win. With us, or thee ? 

Bishop 0/ London: Did ye not outlaw 
your archbishop Robert, 
Robert of Jnmieges — well-nigh murder 

him too? 
Is there no reason for the wrath of Heaven ? 



Leo/win. Why then the wrath of Heaven 

hath three tails. 
The devil only one. 

\_Exit Bishop of London. 

Enter Archbishop Stigand. 

Ask our Archbishop. 
Stigand should know the purposes of 
Heaven. 
Stigand. Not I. I cannot read the face 
of heaven. 
Perhaps our vines will grow the better for 
it. 
Leo/win (laughing). He can but read the 

king's face on his coins. 
Stigajid. Ay, ay, young lord, there the 

king's face is power. 
Gurth. O father, mock not at a public 
fear. 
But tell us, is this pendent hell in heaven 
A harm to England ? 

Stigand. Ask it of King Edward ! 

And mav he tell thee, / am a harm to Eng- 
land. 
Old uncanonical Stigand — ask of me 
Who had my pallium from an Antipope ! 
Not he the man — for in our windy world 
What 's up is faith, what 's down is heresy. 
Our friends, the Normans, holp to shake 

his chair. 
I have a Norman fever on me, son. 
And cannot answer sanely. . . . What it 

means? 
Ask our broad Earl. 

[Pointing to Harold, who enters. 
Harold (seeing Gamel). Hail, Gamel, 
son of Orm ! 
Albeit no rolling stone, my good friend 

Gamel, 
Thou hast rounded since we met. Thy life 

at home 
Is easier than mine here. Look ! am I not 
Work-wan, flesh-fallen ? 

Gamel. Art thou sick, good Earl? 

Harold. Sick as an autumn swallow for a 
voyage. 
Sick for an idle week of hawlc and hound 
Beyond the seas — a change ! When earn- 
est thou hither? 
Gamel. To-day, good Earl. 
Harold. Is the North quiet, Gamel ? 

Gamel. Nay, there be murmurs, for thy 
brother breaks us 
With over-taxing — quiet, aj', as yet — 
Nothing as yet. 

Harold. Stand by him, mine old friend, 
Thou art a great voice m Northumber- 
land ! 
Advise him ; speak him sweetly, he will 

hear thee. 
He is passionate but honest. Stand thou 

by him ! 
More talk of this to-morrow, if yon weird 

sign 
Not blast us in our dreams. — Well, father 
Stigand — 
[To Stigand, wlto advances to him. 



384 



HAROLD. 



Siigand {pointhig to the comet). War 

there, my son? is thai the doom of 

England ? 
Harold- Why not the doom of all the 

world as well ? 
For all the world sees it as well as England. 
These meteors came and went before our day, 
Not harming any : it threatens ns no more 
Than French or Norman. War? the viorst 

that follows 
Things that seem jerk'd out of the common 

rut 
Of Nature is the hot religious fool. 
Who, seeing war in heaven, for heaven's 

credit 
Makes it on earth: but look, where Edward 

draws 
A faint foot hither, leaning upon Tostig. 
He hath learnt to love our Tostig much of 

late. 
Leo/win- And he hath learnt, despite the 

tiger in him, 
To sleek and supple himself to the king's 

hand. 
Gurth. I trust the kingly touch that cures 

the evil 
May serve to charm the tiger out of him. 
Leofiuin- He hath as much of cat as tiger 

in him. 
Our Tostig loves the hand and not the man. 
Harold. Nay ! Better die than lie ! 

Enter King, Queen and Tostig. 
Edward. In heaven signs ! 

Signs upon earth ! signs everywhere ! your 

Priests 
Gross, worldly, simoniacal, unleam'd ! 
They scarce can read their Psalter ; and 

your churches 
Uncouth, unhandsome, while in Normanland 
God speaks thro' abler voices, as He dwells 
In statelier shrines. I say not this, as being 
Half Norman-blooded, nor as some have 

held. 
Because I love the Norman better — no. 
But dreading God's revenge upon this realm 
For narrowness and coldness : and I say it 
For the last time perchance, before I go 
To find the sweet refreshment of the Saints. 
I have lived a life of utter purity : 
I have builded the great church of Holy 

Peter: 
I have wrought miracles — to God the 

glory — 
And miracles will in my name be wrought 
Hereafter. — I have fought the fight and 

go — 
I see the flashing of the gates of pearl — 
And it is well with me, tho' some of you 
Have scorn'd me — ay — but after I am gone 
Woe, woe to England ! I have had a vision ; 
The seven sleepers in the cave at Ephesus 
Have turn'd from right to left. 

Harold. My most dear Master, 

What matters? let them turn from left to 

right 
And sleep again. 



Tostig. Too hardy with thy king \ 

A life of prayer and fasting well may see 
Deeper into the mysteries of heaven 
Than thou, good brother. 

.Ila'zuj'th (aside). Sees he into thine, 

That thou wouldst have his promise for the 

crown ? 

Edward. Tostig says true ; my son, thou 

art too hard, 

Not stagger'd by this ominous earth and 

heaven : 
But heaven and earth are threads of the 

same loom. 
Play into one another, and weave the web 
That may confound thee yet. 

Harold. Nay, I trust not, 

For I have served thee long and honestly. 
Edward. I know it, son ; I am not thank- 
less : thou 
Hast broken all my foes, lighten'd for me 
The weight of this poor crown, and left me 

time 
And peace for prayer to gain a better one. 
Twelve years of service ! England loves 

thee for it. 
Thou art the man to rule her ! 

A Idwyth (aside). So, not Tostig ! 

Harold. And after those twelve years a 
boon, my king. 
Respite, a holiday : thyself wast wont 
To love the chase : thy leave to set my 

feet 
On board, and hunt and hawk beyond the 
seas ! 
Edzuard. What, with this flaming horror 

overhead ? 
Harold. Well, ijhen it passes then. 
Edward. Ay if it pass. 

Go not to Normandy — go not to Normandy. 
Harold. And wh'erefore not, my king, to 
Normandy ? 
Is not my brother Wulfnoth hostage there 
For my dead father's loyalty to thee? 
I pray thee, let me hence and bring him 
home. 
Edward. Not thee, my son : some other 

messenger. 
Harold. And why not me, my lord, to 
Normandy ? 
Is not the Norman Count thy friend and 
mine? 
Edward. I pray thee, do not go to Nor- 
mandy. 
Harold. Because my father drove the 
Normans out 
Of England ? — That was many a summer 

gone — 
Forgotten and forgiven by them and thee. 
Edward. Harold, I will not yield thee 

leave to go. 
Harold. Why then to Flanders. I will 
hawk and hunt 
In Flanders. 

Edward. Be there not fair woods and 
fields 
In England? Wilful, wilful. Go -- the Saints 
Pilot and prosper all thy wandering out 



HAROLD. 



385 



And homeward. Tostig, I am faint again. 
Son Harold, I will in and pray for tliee. 

\_Exit, leaniiigon TosTu;, aiidfoUowed 
by Stigand, Morcak, and Coukt- 

lERS. 

Harold. What lies upon the mind of our 
good king 
That he should harp this way on Normandy? 
Queen. Brother, the king is wiser than he 
seems ; 
And Tostig knows it ; Tostig loves the king. 
Harold. And love should know; and — 
be the king so wise, — 
Then Tostig too were wiser than he seems. 
1 love the man but not liis fantasies. 

Re-enter Tostig. 

Well, brother, 

When didst thou hear from thy Northumbria ? 
Tostig. When did I hear aught but this 
" IVIien " from thee ? 

Leave me alone, brother, with my Nor- 
thumbria : 

She is my mistress, let vie look to her ! 

The King hath made me Earl ; make me 
not fool ! 

Nor make the King a fool, who made me 
Earl ! 
Harold. No, Tostig — lest I make my- 
self a fool 

Who made the King who made thee, make 
thee Eail. 
Tostig. Why chafe me then ? Thou knovv- 

est I soon go wild. 
Gitrth. Come, come ! as yet thou art not 
gone so wild 

But thou canst hear the best and wisest of us. 
Harold, -So says old Gurth, not I : yet 
hear ! thine earldom, 

Tostig.hath been a kingdom. Theirold crown 
'Is yet a force among them, a sun set 

But leaving light enough for Alfgar's house 

To strike thee down by — nay, this ghastly 
glare 

May heat their fancies. 

Tostig. My most worthy brother, 

That art the quietest man in all the world — 

Ay, ay and wise in peace and great in war — 

Pray God the people choose thee for their 
king ! 

But all the powers of the house of Godwin 

Are not enframed in thee. 
Harold. Thank the Saints, no ! 

Hut thou hast drain'd them shallow by thy 
tolls. 

And thou art ever here about the King : 

Tliine absence well may seem a want of care. 

Cling to their love ; for, now the sons of 
Godwin 

Sit topmost in the field of England, envy. 

Like the rough bear beneath the tree, good 
brother. 

Waits till the man let go. 

Tostig. Good counsel truly ! 

I heard from my Northumbria yesterday. 
Harold. How goes it then with thy Nor- 
thumbria? Well? 



Tostig. And wouldst thou that it went 

aught else than well ? 
Harold. I would it went as well as with 
inine earldom, 
Leofwin'sand Gurth's. 

Tostig. Ye govern milder men. 

Gurth. We have made them milder by 

just government. 
Tostig. Ay, ever give yourselves your own 

good word. 
Leo/witi. An honest gift, by all the Saints, 
if giver 
And taker be but honest ! but they bribe 
Each other, and so often, an honest world 
Will not believe them. 

Harold. I may tell thee, Tostig, 

I heard from thy Northumberland to-day. 
Tostig. From spies of thine to spy my 
nakedness 
In my poor North ! 

Harold. There is a movement there, 

A blind one — nothing yet. 

Tostig. Crush it at once 

With all the power I have ! — I must — I 

will! — 
Crush it half-born ! Fool still ? or wisdem 

there, 
My wise head-shaking Harold ? 

Harold. Make not thou 

The nothing something. Wisdom when in 

power 
And wisest, should not frown as Power, but 

smile 
As kindness, watching all, till the true must 
Shall make her strike as Power : but when 

to strike — 
O Tostig, O dear brother — If they prance, 
Rein in, not lash them, lest they rear and run 
And break both neck and axle. 

Tostig. Good again ! 

Good counsel tho' scarce needed. Pour not 

water • 
In the full vessel running out at top 
To swamp the house. 

Leofmin. Nor thou be a wild thing 

Out of the waste, to turn and bite the hand 
Would help thee from the trap. 

Tostig. Thnu iilayest in tune 

Leo/win. To the deaf adder thee, that 
wilt not dance 
However wisely charm'd. 

Tostig. No more, no more ! 

Gurth. I likewise cry "no more." Un- 
wholesome talk 
For Godwin's house I Leofwin, thou hast 

a tongue ! 
Tostig, thou lookst as thou wouldst spring 

upon him. 
St. Olaf, not while I am by ! Come, come, 
Join hands, let brethren dwell in unity ; 
Let kith and kin stand close as our shield- 
wall. 
Who breaks us then ? I say, thou hast 

a tongue, 
And Tostig is not stout enough to bear it- 
Vex him not, Leofwin. 

Tostig. No, I am not vext, — 



386 



HA ROLD. 



Altho' ye seek to vex me, one and all. 
I have to make report of my good earldom 
To the good king who gave it — not to you — 
Not any of you. — 1 am not vext at all. 
Harold. The l^ing? the king is ever at 
his prayers ; 
In all that handles matter of the state 
I am the king. 

fostig. That shalt thou never be 

If I can thwart thee. 
Harold. Brother, brother ! 

Tosiig. Away ! 

[Exit TosTiG. 
Queen. Spite of this grisly star ye three 
must gall 
Poor Tostig. 

Leo/ivin. Tostig, sister, galls himself. 
He cannot smell a rose but pricks his nose 
Against the thorn, and rails against the rose. 
Queen. I am the only rose of all the 
stock 
That never thorn'd him ; Edward loves him, 

so 
Ye hate him. Harold always hated him. 
Why — how they fought when boys — and, 

Holy Mary 1 
How Harold used to beat him ! 

Harold. Why, boys will fight. 

Leofwin would often fight me, and I beat 

him. 
Even old Gurth would fight. I had much 

ado 
To hold mine own against old Gurth. Old 

Gurth, 
We fought like great states for grave cause ; 

but Tostig — 
On a sudden — at a something — for a 

nothing — 
The boy would fist me hard, and when we 

fought 
I conquer'd, and he loved me none the less, 
Till thou wouldst get him all apart, and tell 

him 
That where he was but worsted, he was 

wrong'd. 
Ah ! thou hast taught the king to spoil him 

too ; 
Now the spoilt child sways both. Take 

heed, take heed ; 
Thou art the Queen ; ye are boy and girl 

no more : 
Side not with Tostig in any violence. 
Lest thou be sideways guilty of the violence. 
Qtieett. Come fall not foul on me. I leave 

thee, brother. 
Harold. Nay. my good sister — 
[Exeunt QlxsMU.^, Harold, Gurth, and 
Leofwin. 
Aldwyth. Gamel, son of Orm, 

What thinkest thou this means ? 

[Pointing to the C07net. 

Gamel. War, my dear lady. 

War, waste, plague, famine, all malignities. 

A Idivyth. It means the fall of Tostig from 

his earldom. 
Gamel. That were too small a matter for 
a comet ! 



Aldwyth. It means the lifting of the house 

of Alfgar. 
Gamel. Too small ! a comet would not 

show for that ! 
Aldwyth. Not small for thee, if thou canst 

compass it. 
Gajnel. Thy love ? 
Aldwyth. As much as I can give thee, 

man ; 
This Tostig is, or like to be, a tyrant ; 
Stir up thy people : oust him ! 

Gamel. And thy love ? 

A Idwytk. As much as thou canst bear. 
Gamel. I can bear all, 

And not be giddy. 
Aldwyth. No more now : to-morrow. 

SCENEII.— INTHEGARDEN. THE 
KING'S HOUSE NEAR LONDON. 
SUNSET. 

Edith. Mad for thy mate, passionate 
nightingale. . . . 
I love thee for it — ay, but stay a moment ; 
He can but stay a moment : he is going. 
I fain would hear him coming ! . . . near 

me . . . near. 
Somewhere — To draw him nearer with a 

charm 
Like thine to thine. 

(Singing.) 

Love is coiue with a song and a smile, 
Welcome Love with a smile and a sonji: 
Love can stay but a little while. 
Why cannot he stay? Tliey call him away : 
Ve do li m wrong, ye do him wrong ; 
Love will stay for a whole life long. 

Enter Harold. 
Harold. The nightingales at Havering- 
in-the-bower 
Sang out their loves so loud, that Edward's 

prayers 
Were deafen'd, and he pray'd them dumb, 

and thus 
I dumb thee, too, my wingless nightingale ! 
[Kissing her. 
Edith. Thou art my music ! Would their 
wings were mine 
To follow thee to Flanders ! Must thou 
go? 
Harold. Not must, but will. It is but 

for one mnon. 
Edith. Leaving so many foes in Ed- 
ward's hall 
To league against thy weal. The Lady 

Aldwyth 
Was here to-day, and when she touch'd on 

thee. 
She stammer'd in her hate ; I am sure she 

hates thee. 
Pants for thy blood. 

Harold. Well, I have given her cause — 
I fear no woman. 

Edith. Hate not one who felt 

Some pity for thy hater ! I am sure 
Her morning wanted sunlight, she so praised 
The convent and lone life — within the pale — 



HAROLD. 



387 



Beyond the passion. Nay — she held with 
Edward, 

At least meihouj;ht she held with holv 
Eduaid, 

That marriage was half sin. 

Harold. A lesson worth 

Finger and thumb — thus {snaps his din- 
gers). And niy answer to it — 

See here — an interwoven H and E ! 

Take thou this ring ; 1 will demand his ward 

From Edward when I come again. Ay, 
would she? 

She to shut up my blossom in the dark ! 

Thou art my nun, thy cloister in mine arms. 
Edith (taking the ring). Yea, but Earl 

Tostig — 
Harold. That 's a truer fear ! 

For if the North take fire, I should be back ; 

I shall be, soon enough. 
Edith. Ay, but last night 

An evil dream that ever came and went — 
Harold. A gnat that vext thy pillow ! 
Had I been by 

I would have spoil'd his horn. My girl, 
what was it ? 
Edith. Oh ! that thou wert not going ! 

For so methoiight it was our marriage-morn, 

And while we stood together, a dead man 

Rose from behind the altar, tore away 

My marriage ring, and rent my bridal veil ; 

And then I turn'd, and saw the church all 
fill'd 

With dead men upright from their graves, 
and all 

The dead men made at thee to murder thee, 

But thou didst back thyself against a pillar. 

And strike among them with thy battle-axe — 

There, what a dream ! 

Harold. Well, well — a dream — no more ! 
Edith. Did not Heaven speak to men 

in dreams of old ? 
Harold. Ay — well — of old. I tell thee 
what, my child ; 

Thou hast misread this merry dream of thine, 

Taken the rifted pillars of the wood 

For smooth stone columns of the sanctuary. 

The shadows of a hundred fat dead deer 

For dead men's ghosts. True, that the bat- 
tle-axe 

Was out of place ; it should have been the 
bow. — 

Come, thou shalt dream no more such 
dreams ; I swear it, 

By mine own eyes — and these two sap- 
phires — these 

Twin rubies, that are amulets against all 

The kisses of all kind of womankind 

In Flanders, till the sea shall roll me back 

To tumble at thy feet. 

Edith. That would but shame me, 

Rather than make me vain. The sea may roll 

Sand, shingle, shore-weed, not the living 
rock 

Which guards the laud. 
Harold. Except it be a soft one. 

And undereaten to the fall. Mine am- 
ulet. . . . 



This last . . . upon thine eyelids, to shut in 
A happier dream. Sleep, sleep, and thou 

shalt see 
My greyliounds fleeting like a beam of light. 
And hear my peregrine and her bells in 

heaven : 
And other bells on earth, which yet are 

heaven's ; 
Guess what they be. 

Edith. He cannot guess who knows 

Farewell, my king. 
Harold.. Not yet, but then — my queen. 
\Exettnt. 

Enter Kv.-D\i^-VHfroin the thicket. 
Aldwyth. The kiss that charms thine eye- 
lids into sleep. 

Will hold mine waking. Hate him ? I 
could love him 

More, tenfold, than this fearful child can do ; 

Griftyth I haled : why not hate the foe 

Of England ? Griffyth when 1 saw him flee. 

Chased deer-like up his mountains, all the 
blood 

That should have only pulsed for Griffyth, 
beat 

For his pursuer. I love him or think I love 
him. 

If he were King of England, I his queen, 

I might be sure of it. Nay, I do love him. — 

She must ba cloister'd somehow, lest the 
king 

Should yield his ward to Harold's will. 
What harm ? 

She hath but blood enough to live, not 
love. — 

When Harold goes and Tostig, shall I play 

The craftier Tostig with liim ? fawn upon 
him? 

Chime in with all ? " O thou more saint 
than king ! " 

And that were true enough. "O blessed 
relics ! " 

" O Holy Peter ! " If he found me thus, 

Harold might hate me ; he is broad and hon- 
est, 

Breathing an easy gladness . . . not like Ald- 
wyth . . . 

For which I strangely love him. Should not 
England 

Love Aldwyth, if she stay the feuds that 
part 

The sons of Godwin from the sons of Alfgar 

By such a marrying? Courage, noble Ald- 
wyth ! 

Let all thy people bless thee ! 

Our wild Tostig, 

Edward hath made him Earl : he would be 
king : — 

The dog that snapt the shadow, dropt the 
bone. — 

I trust he may do well, this Gamel, whom 

I play upon, that he may play the note 

Whereat the dog shall howl and run, and 
Harold 

Hear the king's music, all alone with him, 

Pronounced his heir of England. 



HAROLD. 



I see the goal and half the way to it. — 

Peace-lover is our Harold for the sake 

Of England's Viiholeness — so — to sliake 

the North 
With earthquake and disruption — some 

division — 
Then fling mine own fair person in the gap 
A sacrifice to Harold, a peace-offering, 
A scape-goat marriage — all the sins of both 
The houses on mine head — then a fair life 
And bless the Queen of England 
Morccir {comiitg frojii the thicket). Art 
thou assured 
Hy this, that Harold loves but Edith ? 

Aldwyth. Morcar ! 

Why creepst thou like a timorous beast of 

prey 
Out of the bush by night ? 
Alorcar. I follow'd thee. 

Ald^vylh. Follow my lead, and I will 

make thee earl. 
Morcar. What lead then ? 
Aldwyth. Thou shalt llnsh it secretly 

Among thegood Nnrtliumbrian folk, that I — 
That Harold loves me — yea, and presently 
That I and Harold are betroth'd — and 

last — 
Perchance that Harold wrongs me ; tho' 

I would not 
That it should come to that. 

Morcar, I will both flash 

And thunder for thee. 

Aldwyth. I said " secretly " ; 

It is the flash that murders, the poor thun- 
der 
Never harm'd head. 

Aforcar. But thunder may bring down 
That which the flash hath stricken. 

Aldivyth. Down with Tostig ! 

That first of all. — And when doth Harold 
go? 
Morcar. To-morrow — first to Boshain, 

then to Flanders. 
Aldwyth. Not to come back till Tostig 
shall have sliown 
And r,;dden'd with his people's blood the 

teeth 
That shall be broken by us — yea, and thou 
Chair'd in his place. Good-night, and dream 

thyself 
Their chosen Earl. \E.xit Ai.d^vyth. 

Morcar. Earl first, and after that 

Who knows I may not dream myself their 
King I 



ACT II. 

SCENE I. — SEASHORE. PON- 

THIEU. NIOHT. 

Harold and his men, lurecked. 

Harold. Friends, in that last inhospitable 

plunge 

Our boat hath burst her ribs ; but ours are 

whole ; 
I have bnt bark'd my hands. 
A ttendant. I dug mine into 



My old fast friend the shore, and clinging 

thus 
P^elt the remorseless outdraught of the deep 
Haul like a great strong fellovv at my legs. 
And then 1 rose and ran. I'he blast tliat 

came 
So suddenly hath fallen as suddenly — 
Put thou the comet and thisblast together — 
Harold Put thou thyself and mother-wit 

together. 
Be not a fool ! 

Enter Fishermen with torches, Harold 
going up to one of thetn, Rolf. 

Wicked sea-will-o'-the-wisp ! 
Wolf of the shore I dog, with thy lying lights 
Thou hast betray'd us on these rocks of 
thine ! 

Rolf. Ay, but thou liest as loud as the 
black herring-pond behind thee. We be 
fishermen : I came to .see after my nets. 

Harold. To drag us into them. Fish- 
ermen ? devils! 
Who, while ye fish for men with your false 

fires. 
Let the great Devil fish for your own souls. 

Rolf. Nay then, we be liker the blessed 
Apostles; they were fishers of men. Father 
Jean says. 

Harold. I had liefer that the fish had 
swallowed me. 
Like Jonah, than have known there were 

such devils. 
What 's to be done ? 

[ To his men — goes apart with them. 

Fisherman. Rolf, what fish did swallow 
Jonah' 

Kolf A whale ! 

Fisherman. Then a whale to a whelk 
we have swallowed the King of England. 
I saw him over there. Look thee, Rolf, 
when I was down in the fever, she was down 
with the hunger, and thou didst stand by 
her and give her thy crabs, and set her 
up again, till now, by the patient Saints, 
she 's as crabb'd as ever. 

Rolf And I '11 give her my crabs again, 
when thou art down again. 

Fisherman. I thank thee, Rolf. Run 
thou to Count Guy ; he is hard at li.ind. 
Tell him what hath crept into our creel, and 
he will fee thee as freely as he will wrench 
this outlander's ransom out of him — and 
why not ? for what right had he to get 
himself wrecked on another man's land? 

Rolf. Thou art the human-heartedest, 
Christian-charitiest of all crab-catchers I 
Share and share alike ! [E.vit. 

Harold (to Fisherman). Fellow, dost 
thou catch crabs? 

Fisherman. As few as I may in a wind, 
and less than I would in a calm. Ay ! 

Harold. I have a mind that thou shall 
catch no more. 

Fisherman. How? 

Harold. I have a mind to brain thee with 
mine axe. 



HA ROLD. 



389 



Fisherman. Ay, do, do, and our great 
Count-crab will make his nippers meet in 
thine heart ; he 'II sweat it out of thee, he '11 
sweat it out of thee. Look, he 's here ! 
He '11 speak for himself ! Hold thine own, if 
thou canst ! 

Enter Guy, Count of Ponthieo. 
Hnrold. Guy, Count of Ponthieu ! 
Guy. Harold, Earl of Wessex ! 

Harold. Thy villains with their lying 

lights have wreck'd us ! 
Guy. Art thou not Earl of Wessex? 
Harold. In mine earldom 

A man may hang gold bracelets on a bush, 
And leave them for a year, and coming back 
Kind them again. 

Guy. 'I'hou art a mighty man 

In thine own earldom ! 

Harold. Were such murderous liars 

In Wessex — if I caught them, they should 

hang 
ClifF-gibbeted for sea-marks ; our seamew 
Winging their only wail ! 

Guy. Ay, but my men 

Hold that the shipwreckt are accursed of 

God ; — 
What hinders me to hold with mine own 
men ? 
Harold. The Christian tnanhood of the 

man who reigns ! 
Guy. Ay, rave thy worst, but in our oubli- 
ettes 
Thou shalt or rot or ransom. Hale him 
hence ! [ To one 0/ his Attendants. 
Fly thou to William ; tell him we have Har- 
old. 

SCENE II. — BAYEUX PALACE. 
Count William «/«^ William Malet. 
IVilliam. We hold our Saxon woodcock 
in the springe. 
But he begins to flutter. As I think 
He was thine host in England when I went 
To visit Edward. 

Malet. Yea, and there, my lord, j 

To make allowance for their rougher fash- 
ions, 
I found him all a noble host should be. 
]i'illiain. Thou art his friend : thou 
knowst my claim on England 
Thro' Edward's promise : we have him in 

the toils. 
And it were well, if thou shouldst let him 

feel. 
How dense a fold of danger nets him round, 
So that he bristle himself against my will. 
Afalrt. What would I do, my lord, if I were 

you ? 
Williatn. What wouldst thou do? 
Malet. My lord, he is thy guest. 

William. Nay, by the splendor of God, 
no guest of mine. 
He came not to see me, had passed me by 
I'o hunt and hawk elsewhere, save for the 
fate 



Wliich hunted hiin when that un-Saxon 

blast. 
And bolts of thunder moulded in high heaven 
To serve the Norman purpose, drave and 

crack'd 
His boat on Ponthieu beach ; where our 

friend Guy 
Had wrung his ransom from him by the rack. 
But that I stept between and purchased him. 
Translating his captivity Irom Guy 
To mine own hearth at Bayeux, where he sits 
My ransom'd prisona". 

Malet. Well, if not with gold. 

With golden deeds and iron strokes that 

brought 
Thy war with Brittany to a goodlier close 
Than else had been, he paid his ransom back. 
// 'illinni. So that henceforth they are not 

like to league 
With Harold against tne. 

Malet. A marvel, how 

He from the liquid sands of Coesnon 
Haled thy shore-swallow'd, armor'd Nor- 
mans up 
To fight for thee again ! 

iniliatii. Perchance against 

Theii" saver, save thou save him from himself. 

Malet. But I should let him home again, 

my lord. 
IVilliam. Simple ! let fly the bird within 

the hand. 
To catch the bird again within the bush ! 
No. 

Smooth thou my way, before he clash with me; 
I want his voice in England for the crown, 
I want thy voice with him to bring him round ; 
And being brave he must be subtly cow'd, 
And being truthful wrought upon to swear 
Vows that he dare not break. England our 

own 
Thro' Harold's Iielp, he shall be my dear 

friend 
As well as thine, and thou thyself shalt have 
Large lordship there of lands and territory. 
Malet. I knew thy purpose ; he and Wulf- 

noth never 
Have met, except in public ; shall they meet 
In private ? I have often talk'd with Wulf- 

noth. 
And stufiTd the boy with fears that these may 

act 
On Harold when they meet. 

li'illiain. Then let them meet ! 

Malet. I can but love this noble, honest 

Harold. 
William. Love him ! why not? thine is a 

loving office, 
I have commission'd thee to save the man ; 
Help the good ship, showing the sunken rock, 
Or he is wreckt forever. 

Enter Willi AM RuFus. 
Jl'illiam Ru/us. Father. 

William. Well, boy. 

William Ru/us. They have taken away 
the toy thou gavest me. 
The Norman knight. 



39-^ 



HAROLD. 



William. Why, boy? 

iVilliam Ru/us. Because I broke 

The horse's leg — it was mine own to break ; 

I hke to have my toys, and break them too. 

William. We'll, thou shalt have another 

Norman knight ! 
IVilliain Rii/iis. And may I break hislegs? 
William. Yea, — get thee gone ! 

William Ru/us. I '11 tell them 1 have had 
my way with thee. \_Exit. 

Malet. I never knew thee check thy will 
for aught 
Save for the prattling of thy little ones. 
William. Who sliall be kings of Eng- 
land. I am heir 
Of England by the promise of her king. 
Malet. But there the great Assembly 
choose their king. 
The choice of England is the voice of Eng- 
land. 
William. 1 will be king of England by 
the laws, 
The choice, and voice of England. 

Malet. Can that be? 

William. The voice of any people is the 
sword 
That guards them, or the sword that beats 

them down. 
Here comes the would-be what I will be . . . 

kinglike . . . 
Tho' scarce at ease ; for, save our meshes 

break, 
More kinglike he than like to prove a king. 

Enter Harold, musing, with his eyes on 

the ground. 
He sees me not — and yet he dreams of me. 
Earl, wilt thou fly my falcons this fair day ? 
They are of the best, strong-wing'd against 
the wind. 
Harold (looking up suddenly., having 
caught Imt the last word). Which 
wav does it blow? 
William. Blowing for England, ha? 

Not yet. Thou hast not learnt thy quarters 

here. 
The winds so cross and jostle among these 
toT^ers. 
Harold. Count of the Normans, thou hast 
ransom 'd ns, 
Maintnin'd, and entertain'd us royally ! 
William. And thou for us hast fought as 
lovallv. 
Which binds us friendship-fast forever ! 

Harold. Good ! 

Rut lest we turn the scale of courtesy 
By too much pressure on it, I would fain, 
Since thou hast promised Wulfnoth home 

with us. 
Be home again with Wulfnoth. 

Willia m. Stay — as yet 

Thou hast but seen how Norman hands can 

.strike, 
Butwalk'dour Norman field, scarce touch'd 

or tasted 
The splendors of our Court. 
Harold. I am in no mood : 



I should be as the shadow of a cloud 
Crossing your light. 

William. Nay, rest a week or two, 

And we will fill thee full of Norman sun, 
And send thee back among thine island mists 
With laughter. 
Harold. Count, I thank thee, but had 

rather 
Breathe the free wind from off our Saxon 

downs, 
Tho' charged with all the wet of all the west. 
William. Why if thou wilt, so let it be — 

thou shalt. 
That were a graceless hospitality 
To chain the free guest to the banquet-board ; 
To-morrow we will ride with thee to Har- 

fleur. 
And see thee shipt, and pray in thy behalf 
For happier homeward winds than that which 

crack'd 
Thy bark at Ponthieu, — yet to us, in faith, 
A happy one — whereby we came to know 
Thy valor and thy value, noble earl. 
Ay, and perchance a happy one for thee, 
Provided — I will go with thee to-morrow — 
Nay — but there be conditions, easy ones, 
So thou, fair friend, will take them easily. 

Enter P.'VGE. 

Page. My lord, there is a post from over 
seas 
With news for thee. [£'jr/'/ Page. 

William. Come, Malet, let us hear! 

\E. remit Count William and Malet. . 
Harold. Conditions? What conditions? 
Pay him back 
His ransom? "easy" — that were easy — 
I nay — 

No money-lover he ! What said the King? 
" I pray you do not go to Normandy." 
And fate hath blown me hither, bound me too 
With bitter obligation to the Count — 
I Have I not fought it out? What did he 
I mean ? 

' There lodged a gleaming grimness in his 
■ eyes. 

Gave his shorn smile the lie. The walls 

oppress me, 
And yon huge keep that hinders half the 

heaven. 
Free air ! free field ! 

\Moves to go out. A Man-at-arms 
follows htm. 
Harold (to the Man-at-arms). I need 
thee not. Why dost ihcu follow me ? 
Man- at arms. I have the Count's com- 
mands to follow thee. 
Harold. What then ? Am I in danger in 

this court ? 
Man-at-arms. I cannot tell. I have the 

Count's commands. 
Harold Stand out of earshot then, and 
keep me still 
In eyeshot. 
Man-at-arms. Yea, lord Harold. 

r Withdraws. 
Harold. And arm'd men 



HAROLD. 



391 



Ever keep watch beside my chamber door, 
And if I walk within the lonely wood, 
There is an arm'd man ever glides behind ! 

Enter Ma LET. 
Why am I follow'd, haunted, harass'd, 

watch'd ? 
See yonder ! 

{Pomthtg to the Man-at-arms. 
Malet. 'T is the good Count's care for 
thee I 
The Normans love thee not, nor tliou the 

Normans, 
Or — so they deem. 

Harold. But wherefore is the wind. 

Which way soever the vane-arrow swing, 
Not ever fair for England? Why but now 
He said (thou heardst him) that I must not 

hence 
Save on conditions. 
Mnlet. So in truth he said. 

Harold. Malet, thy mother was an Eng- 
lishwoman ; 
There somewhere beats an English pulse in 
thee ! 
Malet. Well — for my mother's sake I 
love your England, 
But for my father I love Normandy. 
Harold. Speak for thy mother's sake, 

and tell me true. 
Malet. Then for my mother's sake, and 
England's sake 
That suffers in the daily want of thee. 
Obey the Count's conditions, my good friend. 
Harold. How, Malet, if they be not hon- 
orable ! 
Malet. Seem to obey them. 
Harold. Better die than lie I 

Malet. Choose therefore whether thou 
wilt have thy conscience 
White as a maiden's hand, or whether Eng- 
land 
Be shatter'd into fragments. 
Harold. News from England ? 

Malet. Morcar and Edwin have siirr'd up 
the Thanes 
Against thy brother Tostig's governance : 
.And all the North of Humber is one storm. 
Harold. I should be there, Malet, I 

should be there ! 
Malet. And Tostig in his own hall on sus- 
picion 
Hath massacred the Thane that was his 

guest, 
Game), the son of Orm : and there be more 
.As villanously slain. 

Harold. The wolf! the beast ! 

Ill news for guests, ha, Malet ! More? 

What more? 
What do they say ? did Edward know of this ? 
Malet. They say, his wife was knowing 

and abetting. 
Harold. They say, his wife ! — To marry 
and have no husband 
Makes the wife fool. My God, I should be 

there. 
I 'U hack my way to the sea. 



Malet. Thou canst not, Harold ; 

Our Duke is all between thee and the sea. 

Our Duke is all about thee like a God ; 

All passes block'd. Obey him, speak him 
fair. 

For he is only debonair to those 

That follow where he leads, but stark as 
death 

To those that cross him. — Look thou, here 
is Wulfnoth ! 

I leave thee to thy talk with him alone ; 

How wan, poor lad ! how sick and sad for 
home ! \Exit Malet. 

Harold {muttering). Go not to Norman- 
dy — go not to Normandy ! 

Enter Wulfnoi H. 
Poor brother I still a hostage ! 

VVul/noth. Yea, and I 

Shall see the dewy kiss of dawn no more 
Make blush the maiden-white of our tall 

cliffs, 
Nor mark the sea-bird rouse himself and 

hover 
Above the windy ripple, and fill the sky 
With free sea-laughter — never — save in- 
deed 
Thou canst make yield this iron-mooded 

Duke 
To let me go. 

Harold. Why, brother, so he will ; 

But on conditions. Canst thou guess at 
them ? 
Wulfnoth. Draw nearer, — I was in the 
corridor, 
I saw him coming with his brother Odo 
The Bayeux bishop, and I hid myself. 
Harold. They did thee wrong who made 
thee hostage ; thou 
Wast ever fearful. 

Wulfnoth. And he spoke — I h^ard 
him — 
"This Harold is not of the royal blood, 
Can have no right to the crown," and Odo 

said, 
" Thine is the right, for tliine tlie might ; he 

is here. 
And yonder is thy keep" 
Harold. No,Wulfnoth, no. 

Wulfnoth. And William laugh'd and 
swore that might was right, 
Far as he knew in this poor world of ours — 
" Marry, the Saints must go along with us. 
And, brother, we will find a way," said he — 
Yea, yea, he would be king of England. 
Harold. , Never ! 

Wulfnoth. Yea, but thou must not this 

way answer him. 
Harold. Is it not better still to speak 

the truth? 
Wulfnoth. Not here, or thou wilt never 
hence nor I : 
For in the racing toward this golden goal 
He turns not right or left, but tramples flat 
Whatever thwarts him ; hast thou never 

heard 
His savagery at AlenQon, — the town 



39» 



HA ROLD. 



Hung out raw hides along their walls, and 

cried 
" Work for the tanner." 

Harold. That had aiiger'd me. 

Had I been William. 

Wul/noth. Nay, but he had prisoners. 
He tore their eyes out, sliced their hands 

away, 
And flung them streaming o'er the battle- 
ments 
Upon the heads of tliose who walk'd with- 
in — 
O speak him fair, Harold, for thine own 
sake. 
Harold. Your Welshman says, "The 
Truth against the World," 
Much more the truth against myself. 

IVnl/noth. Thyself? 

But for my sake, oh brother ! oh ! for my 
sake ! 
Harold. Poor Wulfnoth ! do they not en- 
treat thee well ? 
IVid/noth. 1 see the blackness of my dun- 
geon loom 
Across their lamps of revel, and beyond 
The merriest murmurs of their banquet clank 
The shackles that will bind me to llie wall. 
Harold. Too fearful still. 
IVidf/ioth. Oil no, no — speak him fair ! 
Call it to temporize ; and not to lie ; 
Harold, I do not counsel thee to lie. 
'i'he man that haili to foil a murderous aim 
Mny, surely, play with woids. 

Harold. Words are the man. 

Nut ev'n for thv sake, brother, would I lie, 
Wii'/nolh. 'i'hen lor thine Edith? 
Harold There thou prickst me deep. 

il'id/iioth. And for our i\l other England ? 
Harold Deeper still. 

IVulffioth. And deeper still the deep-down 
oubliette, 
Down thirty feet below the smiling day — 
In blackness — dogs' food thrown upon thy 

head. 
And over thee the suns arise and set, 
And the lark sings, the sweet stars come 

and go. 
And men are at their markets, in their fields. 
And woo their loves and have forgotten thee ; 
And thou art upright in thy living grave. 
Where there is barely room to shift thy side. 
And all thine England hath forgotten thee ; 
And he our lazy-pious Norman King, 
With all his Normans round him once again. 
Counts hisold beads, and hath forgotten thee. 
Harold. Thou art of niv blood, and so me- 
thinks, my boy. 
Thy fears infect me beyond reason. Peace ! 
IVul/noth. And then our fiery Tostig, 
while thy hands 
Are palsied here, if his Northumbrians rise 
.'\nd hurl him from them, — I have heard 

the Normans 
Count upon this confusion — may he not 

make 
A league with William, so to bring him 
back? 



Harold. That lies withia the shadow of 

the chance. 
M'ul/noth. And like a river in flood thro' 
a burst dam 
Descends the ruthless Norman — our gnod 

King 
Kneels mumbling some old bone — our help- 
less folk 
Are wash'd away, wailing, in their own 
blood — 
Harold. Wailing! not warring? Boy, thou 
liast forgotten 
That thou art English. 

// 'ul/tioth. Then our modest women — 
I know the Norman license — thine own 
Edith — 
Harold. No more ! I will not hear thee 

— William comes. 
Wnljnoth. I dare not well be seen in 
talk with thee. 
Make thou not mention that I spake with 
thee. 
\ Moves, away to the hack of the stage. 

£'«/f^- William, M.\let, a«i^ Officer. 
Officer. We have the man that rail'd 

against thy birth. 
If'illiam. Tear out his tongue. 
Officer. He shall not rail again ; 

He said that he should see confusion fall 
On tliee and on thine house. 

IVilliam. Tear out his eyes, 

And plunge him into prison. , 

Officer. It shall be done. 

\_E.rit Officer. 
William. Look not amazed, fair earl ! 
Better leave undone 
Than do by halves — tongueless and eye- 
less, prison'd — 
Harold. Better methinks have slain the 

man at once ! 
JJ'illiam. We have respect for man's im- 
mortal soul. 
We seldom take man's life, except in war ; 
It frights the traitor more to maim and blind. 
Harold. In mine own land I should have 
scorn'd the man, 
Or lash'd his rascal back, and let him go. 
U'illiam. And let him go? To slander 
thee again ! 
Yet in thine own land in thy father's day 
They blinded my young kinsman, Alfred — 

ay, 
Some said it was thy father's deed. 
Harold. They lied. 

U'illiam. But thou and he — whom at 
thy word, for thou 
Art known a speaker of the truth, I free 
From this foul charge — 

Harold. Nay, nay, he freed himself 

By oath and compurgation from the cliarge. 
The king, the lords, the people clear'd him 
of it. 
William. But thou and he drove our good 
Normans out 
From England, and this rankles in us yet. 
Archbishop Robert hardly scaped with life. 



HAROLD. 



393 



ffaroM- Archbishop Robert ! Robert the 
Archbishop ! 
Robert of Jumieges, he that — 
Malet. Quiet ! quiet ! 

Harold. Count ! if there sat within thy 
Norman chair • 
A ruler all for England — one who fill'd 
All offices, all bislioprics with English — 
We could not move Irom Dover to the Hum- 

ber 
Saving thro' Norman bishoprics — I say 
Ye would applaud that Norman who should 

drive 
The stranger to the fiends ! 

William. Why, that is reason ! 

Warrior thou art, and mighty wise withal ! 
Ay, ay, but many among our Norman lords 
Hate tliee for this, and press upon me — say- 
ing 
God and the sea have given thee to our 

hands — 
To plunge thee into lite-long prison here : — 
Yet [ hold out against them, as I may. 
Yea — would hold out, yea, tho' they should 

revolt — 
For thou hast done the battle in my cause ; 
I am thy fastest friend in Nonriandy. 
Harold. 1 am doubly bound to thee . . . 

if this be so. 
li'illiaiii. And I would bind thee more, 
and would myself 
Be bounden to thee more. 

Harold. Then let me hence 

With Wulfnoth to King Edward 

William. So we will. 

We hear he hath not long to live. 
Harold. It may be. 

William. Why then the heir of England, 

who is he? 
Harold. The Atheling is nearest to the 

throne. 
William. But sickly, slight, lialf-witted 
and a child. 
Will England have him king? 

Harold. It may be, no. 

William. And hath King Edward not 

pronounced his heir? 
Harold. Not that I know. 
William. When he was here in Nor- 
mandy, 
He loved us and we him, because we found 

him 
A Norman of the Normans. 
Harold. So did we. 

William. A gentle, gracious, pure and 
saintly man ! 
And grateful to the hand that shielded him, 
He promised that if ever he were king 
In England, he would give his kingly voice 
To me as his successor. Knowest tliou this ? 
Harold. I learn it now. 
Williavt. Thou knowest I am his cousin, 
And that my wife descends from Alfred? 
Harold. Ay. 

William. Who hath a better claim then 
to the c«iwn 
So that ye will not crown the Atheling? 



Harold. None that I know ... if that 
but hung upon 
King Edward's will. 

William. Wilt thou uphold my claim? 
Malet (aside to Harcild) Be careful of 

thine answer, my good iVicnd. 
WiiiJiiotti{aside to VL.\-Ro\.\i). Oh! Har- 
old, for my sake and for thine own ! 
Harold. Ay ... if the king have not re- 
voked his promise. 
li'illiam. But hath he done it then? 
Harold. Not that I know. 

William. Good, good, and thou wilt help 

nie to the crown. 
Harold. Ay ... if the Witan will con- 
sent to this. 
William. Thou art the mightiest voice 
in England, man. 
Thy voice will lead the Witan — shall I 
have it? 
Wul/iioth (aside to Harold) Oh ! Har- 
old, if thou love thine Edith, ay. 
Harold. Ay, if — 
Malet (aside to Harold). Thine "ifs" 

will sear thine eyes out — ay. 
William. I ask thee, wilt thou help me 
to the crown ? 
And I will make thee my great Earl of Earls, 
Eoremost in England and in Normandy; 
Thou shalt be verily king — all but the 

name- — • 
For I shall most sojourn in Normandy ; 
And thou be my vice-king in England. 
Speak. 
Wulfnoth (aside to Harold). Ay, broth- 
er — for the sake of England — ay. 
Harold. My lord — 

Malel (aside toH arold). Take heed now. 
Harold. Ay. 

William. I am content, 

For thou art truthful, and thy word thy 

bond. 
To-morrow will we ride with thee to Har- 
fleur. f^j-zV William. 

Dlalei Harold, I am thy friend, one life 
with thee, 
And even as I should bless thee, saving mine, 
I thank thee now for having saved thyself 
{Exit Malet. 
Harold. For having lost myself to save 
myself. 
Said "ay" when I meant "no," lied like 

a lad 
That dreads the pendent scourge, said " ay " 

for " no ! " 
Ay! No! — he hath not bound me by ai\ 

oath — 
Is "ay" an oath? is "ay" strong as an 

oath? 
Or is it the same sin to break my word 
As break mine oath? He call'd my word 

my bond ! 
He is a liar who knows I am a liar, 
And makes believe that he believes my 

word — 
The crime be on his head — not bounden — 
no. 



X 



394 



HAROLD. 



\Suddenly doors are flun^ open, dis- 
covering in an enney Jiall Count 
William in his state robes, seated 
upon his throne, betu-een two bish- 
ops, Ouo OF Baveux being one: in 
the centre of the hall an ark covered 
•with cloth of gold ; and on eitlier side 
of it the Norman barons. 

Enter a Jailer be/ore William's throne. 
William (/o Jailer). Knave, hast tliou 

let thy prisoner scape? 
Jailer. Sir Count, 

He had but one foot, he must have hopt 

away ; 
Yea, some familiar spirit must have help'd 
him. 
William. Woe kuave to thy familiar and 
to thee ! 
Give me thy keys. [They /all clashing. 

Nay, let them lie. Stand there and wait 
my will. [The Jailer stands aside. 
William (to Harold). Hast thou such 

trustless jailers in thy North.' 
Harold. We have few prisoners in mine 
earldom there, 
So less chance for false keepers. 

William. We have heard 

Of thy just, mild, and equal governance; 
Honor to thee ! thou art perfect in all hon- 
or ! 
Thy naked word thy bond ! confirm it now 
Before our gather'd Norman baronage, 
For they will not believe thee — as I be- 
lieve. 
[Descends from his throne and stands 
by the ark. 
Let all men here bear witness of our bond ! 
[Beckons to Harold, "who advances. 
Enter Ma LET behind him. 
Lay thou thy hand upon this golden pall ! 
Behold the jewel of St. Pancratius 
Woven into the gold. Swear thou on this ! 
Harold. What should I swear? Why 

should I swear on this? 
William (savagely). Swear thou to help 

me to the crown of England. | 

Malet whispering Harold). My friend, 

thou hast gone too far to palter now. i 
Wulfnoth {^whispering Harold). Swear j 
thou today, to-morrow is thine own. I 
Harold. I swear to help thee to the crown 
of England . . . 
\ccording as King Edward promises. 
William. Thou must swear absolutely, 

noble Earl. 
Malet [whispering). Delay is death to 

thee, ruin to England. 
Wulftioth (whispering). Swear, dearest 

brother, I beseech thee, swear ! 
Harold (putting his hand on the jetvd). I 
swear to help thee to the crown of 
England. 
William. Thanks, truthful Earl ; I did 
not doubt thy word. 
But that my barons might believe thy word. 
And that the Holy Saints of Normandy 



When thou art home in England, with thine 

own. 
Might strengthen thee in keeping of thy 

word, 
I made thee swear. — Show him by whona 

he hath sworn. 
[ Tlw tivo Bishops advance, and raise the 

cloth of gold. The bodies and bones 

of Saints are seen lying in the ark. 
The holy bones of all the Canonized 
From all the holiest shrines in Normandy ! 
Harold. Horrible ! 

[ They let the cloth fall again. 

Williatn. Ay, for thou hast sworn an oath 

Which, if not kept, would make the hard 

earth rive 
To the very Devil's horns, the bright sky 

cleave 
To the very feet of God, and send her hosts 
Of injured Saints to scatter sparks of plague 
Thro' ail your cities, blast your infants, dash 
The torch of war among your standing corn, 
Dabble your hearths with your own blood. — 

Enough ! 
Thou wilt not break it ! \, the Count — the 

King — 
Thy friend — am grateful for thine honest 

oath. 
Not coming fiercely like a conqueror, now, 
But softly as a bridegroom to his own. 
For I shall rule according to your laws, 
And make your ever-jarrmg Earldoms move 
To music and in order — Angle, Jute, 
Dane, Saxon, Norman, help to build a throne 
Out-towering hers of France. . . . The wind 

is fair 
For England now. . . . To-night we will be 

merry. 
To-morrow will I ride with thee to Harfleur. 
[Exeunt William and all the Norman 

barons, etc. 
Harold. To-night we will be merry — and 

to-morrow — 
Juggler and bastard — bastard — he hates 

that most — 
William the tanner's bastard ! Would he 

heard me ! 

God, that I were in some wide, waste field 
With nothing but my battle-axe and him 

To spatter his brains ! Why let earth rive, j 

gulf in 
These cursed Normans — yea and mine own 

self 
Cleave heaven, and send thy saints that I 

may say 
Ev'n to their faces, " If ye side with William 
Ye are not noble." How their pointed fin- | 

gers i 

Glared at me ! Am I Harold, Harold son i 
Of our great Godwin ? Lo ! I touch mine j 

arms, ' 

My limbs — they are not mine — they are a ] 

liar's — I 

1 mean to be a liar — I am not bound — 
Stigand shall give me absolution for it — 
Did the che.>t move? did it move? I am 

utter craven ! 



395 



O Wulfnoth, Wulfnoth, brother, thou hast 
betray'd me ! 
Wulfnoth. Forgive me, brotlier, I will 
live here and die. 

Enter Page. 
Page. My lord ! the Duke awaits thee at 

the banquet. 
Harold. Where they eat dead men's flesh, 

and drink their blood. 
Page- M y I ord — 

Harold. I know your Norman cookery is 
so spiced, 
It masks all this. 
Page. My lord ! thou art white as death. 
Harold. With looking on the dead. Am 
I so white .' 
Thy Duke will seem the darker. Hence, I 
follow. [Exeunt. 



ACT III. 

SCENE I. — THE KING'S PALACE. 
LONDON. 

King Edward dyins^ 'on a couch, and 
by him standing the Queen, Haruld, 
Archbishop Stigand, Gurth, Leof- 
wiN, Archbishop Aldred, Aldwvth, 
and Edith. 

Stigand. Sleeping or dying there? If 
this be death, 
Then our great Council wait to crown thee 

King — 
Come hither, 1 have a power : [to Harold. 
They call me near, for I am close to thee 
And England — I, old shrivell'd Stigand, I, 
Dry as an old wood-fungus on a dead tree, 
I have a power ! 

See here this little key about my neck ! 
There lies a treasure burled down in Ely : 
If e'er the Norman grow too hard for thee. 
Ask me for this at thy most need, son Harold, 
At thy most need — not sooner. 
Harold. So I will. 

Stigand. Red gold — a hundred purses — 
yea, and more ! 
If tliou canst make a wholesome use of these 
To chink against the Norman, I do believe 
My old crook'd spine would bud out two 

young wings 
To fly to heaven straight with. 

Harold. Thank thee, father ! 

Thou art English, Edward too is English 

now : 
He hath clean repented of his Normanism. 
Stigand. Ay, as the libertine repents who 
cannot 
Make done undone, when thro' his dying 

sense 
Shrills " lost thro' thee." They have built 

their castles here : 
Our priories are Norman ; the Norman adder 
Hath bitten us ; we are poison'd : our dear 

England 
Is demi-Norman. He 1 — 

[.Pointing to King Edward sleeping. 



Harold. I would I were 

As holy and as passionless as he ! 
That I might rest as calmly ! Look at him -^ 
The rosy face, and long down-silvering beard, 
The brows unwrinkled as a summer mere — 
Stigand. A summer mere with sudden 

wreckful gusts 
From a side-gorge. Passionless? How he 

flamed 
When Tostig's anger'd earldom flung him, 

nay, 
He fain had calcined all Northumbria 
To one black ash, but that thy patriot passion 
Siding will! our greai Council against Tostig, 
Out-passion'd his ! Holy? ay, ay, forsooth, 
A conscience for his own soul, not his realm ; 
A twilight conscience lighted thro' a chink ; 
Thine by the sun ; nay, by some sun to be. 
When all the world hath learnt to speak the 

truth. 
And lying were self-min-der by that state 
Which was the exception. 
Harold. 'I'hat sun may God speed ! 

Stigand. Come, Harold, shake the cloud 

olf ! 
Harold. Can I, father ? 
Our I'ostig parted cursing me and England ; 
Our sister hates us for his banishment ; 
He hath gone to kindle Norway against Eng- 
land, 
And Wulfnoth is alone in Normandy. 
For when I rode with William down to Har- 

fleur, 
" Wulfnoth is sick," he said ; " he cannot 

follow " ; 
Then with that friendly-fiendly smile of his, 
" We have learnt to love him, let him a little 

longer 
Remain a hostage for the loyalty 
Of Godwin's house" As far as touches Wulf- 
noth, 
I that so prized plain word and naked truth 
Have sinn'd against it — all in vain. 

Leof-win. Good brother, 

By all the truths that ever priest hath 

preach'd. 
Of all the lies that ever men have lied, 
Thine is the pardonablest. 

Harold. May be so ! 

I think it so, I think I am a fool 
To think it can be otherwise than so. 

Stigand. Tut, tut, I have absolved thee : 

dost thou scorn me. 
Because I had my Canterbury pallium 
From one whom they dispoped ? 
Harold. No, Stigand, no ! 

Stigand. Is naked truth actable in true 

life? 
I have heard a saying of thy father Godwin, 
That, were a man of state nakedly true. 
Men would but take him for the craftier liar. 
Leo/win. Be men less delicate than the 

Devil himself? 
I thoucht that naked Truth would shame the 

Devil, 
The Devil is so modest. 
Gurth. He never said it I 



396 



HAROLD. 



Leo/win. Be thou not stupid-honest, 

brother Gurth ! 
Harold. Better to be a liar's dog, and hold 
My master honest, than believe that lying 
And ruling men are fatal twins that cannot 
Move one without the other. Edward 

wakes ! — 
Dazed — he hath seen a vision. 

Ed'ward. The green tree ! 

Then a great Angel past along the highest 
Crying " the doom of England," and at once 
He stood beside me, in his grasp a sword 
(Jf lightnings, wherewithal he cleft the tree 
From off the bearing trunk, and hurl'd it 

from him 
Three fields away, and then he dash'd and 

drench'd, 
He dyed, he soak'd the trunk with human 

blood. 
And brought the sunder'd tree again, and 

set it 
Straight on the trunk, that thus baptized in 

blood 
Grew ever high and higher, beyond my see- 
ing. 
And shot out sidelong boughs across the deep 
That dropt themselves, and rooted in far isles 
Beyond my seeing : and the great Angel rose 
And past again along the highest crying 
" I'he doom of England ! " — Tostig, raise 

my head ! [Fails back senseless- 

Harold (raising him). Let Harold serve 

for Tostig ! 
Queen. Harold served 

Tostig so ill, he cannot serve for Tostig ! 
Ay, raise his head, for thou hast laid it low ! 
The sickness of our saintly king, for whom 
My prayers go up as fast as my tears fall, 
I well believe, hath mainly drawn itself 
From lack of Tostig — thou hast banish'd 

him. 
Harold. Nay — but the Council, and the 

king himself! 
Queen. Thou hatest him, hatest him. 
Harold (coldly). Ay — Stigand, unriddle 
This vision, canst thou? 

Stigand- Dotage ! 

Edward {starting up)- It is finish'd. 

I have built the Lord a house — the Lord 

hath dwelt 
In darkness. I have built the Lord a 

house -- 
Palms, flowers, pomegranates, golden cheru- 
bim 
With twenty-cubit wings from wall to wall — 
1 have built the Lord a house — sing, Asaph ! 

clash 
The cymbal, Heman ! blow the trumpet, 

priest ! 
Fall, cloud, and fill the house — !o ! my two 

pillars, 
Jachin and Boaz ! — 

\-Seci>ig Harold (7«(/ Gurth. 
H.irold. Gurth, — where am I? 
Where is the charter of our Westminster? 
Stigand. It lies beside thee, king, upon 

thy bed. 



Edward. Sign, sign at once — take, sign 
it, Stigand, Aldred ! 
Sign it, my good son Harold, Gurth, and 

Leofwin, 
Sign it, my queen ! 
All. We have sign'd it. 

Edward. It is finish'd ! 

The kingliest Abbey in all Christian lands. 
The lordliest, loftiest minster ever built 
To Holy Peter in our English isle ! 
Let me be buried there, and all our kings, 
And all our just and wise and holy men 
That shall be born hereafter. It is finish'd ! 
Hast thou had absolution for thine oath? 

[ To Harold. 
Harold. Stigand hath given me absolution 

for it. 
Edward. Stigand is not canonical enough 
To save thee from the wrath of Norman 
Saints. 
Stigand. Norman enough ! Be there no 
Saints of England 
To help us from their brethren yonder? 

Ed'ward. Prelate, 

The Saints are one, but those of Norman- 
land 
Are mightier than our own. Ask it of 
Aldred. \To Harold. 

Aldred. It shall be granted him, my king ; 
for he 
Who vows a vow to strangle his own mother 
Is guiltier keeping this, than breaking it. 
Edward- O friends, I shall not overlive 

the day. 
Stigand. Why then the throne is empty. 
Who inherits ? 
For tho' we be not bound by the king's voice 
In making of a king, yet the king's voice 
Is much toward his making. Who inherits? 
Edgar the Atheling? 

Edward. No, no, but Harold. 

I love him : he hath served me : none but he 
Can rule all England. Yet the curse is on 

him 
For swearing falsely by those blessed bones ; 
He did not mean to keep his vow 

Harold. Not mean 

To make our England Norman. 

Edward- There spake Godwin, 

Who hated all the Normans ; but their Saints 
Have heard thee, Harold. 

Edith- Oh ! my lord, my king ! 

He knew not whom he sware by. 

Edward. Yea, I know 

He knew not, but those heavenly ears have 

heard, 
Their curse is on him ; wilt thou bring an- 
other, 
Edith, upon his head? 
Edith- No, no, not I. 

Edward. Why then, thou must not wed 

him. 
Harold. Wherefore, wherefore ? 
Edward. O son, when thou didst tell me 
of thine oath, 
I sorrow'd for my random promise given 
To von fox-lion. I did not dream thep 



HAROLD. 



397 



I should be king. — My son, the Saints are 

virgins ; 
They love the white rose of virginity, 
I'he cold, white lily blowing in lier cell ; 
I have been niyseli'a virgin ; and I sware 
I'o consecrate my virgin heie to heaven — 
The silent, cloister'd, solitary life, 
A life of life-long prayer against the curse 
Tliat lies on thee and England. 
Harold. No, no, no. 

Edward. Treble denial of the tongue of 
flesh, 
r.ike Peter's when he fell, and thou wilt have 
To wail for it like Peter. O my .son ! 
Are all oaths to be broken then, all promises 
Made in our agony for help from heaven ? 
Son, there is one who loves thee : and a 

wife, 
What matters who, so she be serviceable 
In all obedience, as mine own hath been : 
God bless thee, wedded daughter. 

[Laying his handoii the Queen'.s head. 
Queen. Bless thou too 

That brother whom I love beyond the rest, 
My banish'd Tostig. 

Edivard. All the sweet Saints bless him ! 
Spare and forbear him, Harold, if he comes ! 
And let him pass unscathed; he loves me, 

_ Harold ! 
Be kindly to the Normans left among us. 
Who follovv'd me for love ! and dear son, 

swear. 
When thou art king, to see my solemn vow 
Accomplish'd ! 

Harold. Nay, dear lord, for I have sworn 
Not to swear falsely twice. 
Edward. Thou wilt not swear? 

Harold. I cannot. 

Edward. Then on thee remains the curse, 
Harold, if thou embrace her; and on thee, 
Edith, if thou abide it, — 

\_rJie Yj{.tiQ sxuoons ; ^nwH falls and 
kneels by the couch. 
Stigaud. He hath swoon 'd I 

Death ? . . . no, as yet a breath. 

Harold. Look up ! look up ! 

Edith ! 

Aldred Confuse her not ; she hath begun 
Her life-long prayer for thee. 

Aldwyth. O noble Harold, 

I would thou couldst have swoni. 
Harold. For thine own jileasure? 

Aldwyth. No, but to please our dying 
king, and those 
Who make thy good their own — all Eng- 
land, Earl. 
Aldred. I would thou couldst have sworn. 
Our holy king 
Hath given his virgin lamb to Holy Church 
To save thee from the curse. 

Harold. Alas ! poor man. 

His promise brought it on me. 

Aldred. O good son ! 

That knowledge made him all the carefuller 
To find a means wliereby the curse might 

glance 
From thee and England. 



Harold Father, we so loved — 

Aldred. The more the love, the mightier 
is the prayer ; 
'I'he more the love, the more acceptable 
The sacrifice of both your loves to heaven. 
No sacrifice to heaven, no help from heaven ; 
That runs thro' all the faiths of all the world. 
And sacrifice there must be, lor the king 
Is holy, and hath talk'd with God, and seen 
A shadowing horror ; there are signs in 
heaven — 
Harold. Your comet came and went. 
Aldred. And signs on earth ! 

Knowest thou Senlac hill ? 

Harold. I know all Sussex ; 

A good intrenchment for a perilous hour ! 
Aldred. Pray Gud that come not sud- 
denly ! There is one 
Who passing by that hill three nights ago — 
He shook so that he scarce could out with 

it — 
Heard, heard — 
Harold. The wind in his hair? 

A Idred. A ghostly horn 

Blowing continually, and faint battle hymns. 
And cries, and clashes, and the groans of 

men ; 
And dreadt'ul shadows strove upon the hill, 
And dreadful lights crept up from out the 

marsh — 
Corpse-candles gliding over nameless 
graves — 
Hatvld. At Senlac? 
Aldred. Senlac. 

Ed7vard {waking). Senlac! Sanguelac, 
The Lake of Blood ! 

Siigand. This lightning before death 

Plays on the word, — and Norinanizes too ! 

Harold. Hush, father, hush ! 

Edward. Thou uncanonical fool. 

Wilt thou play with the thunder? North 

and South 
Thunder together, showers of blood are 

blown 
Before a never-ending blast, and hiss 
Aga.nst the blaze they cannot quench — a 

lake, 
A sea of blood — we are drown'd in blood 

— for God 
Has fill'd the quiver, and Death has drawn 

the bow — 
Sanguelac ! Sanguelac ! the arrow ! the ar- 
row ! [Vies 
Stigand. It is the arrow of death in his 
own heart — 
And our great Council wait to crown thee 
King. 

SCENEII. — IN THE GARDEN. THE 
KING'S HOUSE NEAR LONDON. 

Edith. Crown'd, crown'd and lost, crown'd 
King — and lost to me I 

(Singing.) 
Two yoiin^ lovers in winter weather, 

None to g^uide them, 
Walk'd at night on the misty heather ; 



398 



HAROLD. 



Night, as black as a raven's feather ; 

Both were lost and found together, 

None beside them. 

That is the burthen of it — lost and found 

Together in the cruel river Swale 

A hundred years ago ; and there 's another, 

Lost, lost, the light of day. 
To which the lover answers lovingly, 

" I am beside thee." 
Lost, lost, we have lost the way. 

" Love, I will guide thLC." 
Whither, O whither? into the river. 
Where we two may be lost together. 
And lost forever? "Oh! never, oh ! never, 
Tho' we be lost and be found together." 

Some think they loved within the pale for- 
bidden 

By Holy Church: but who shall say? the 
truth 

Was lost in that fierce North, where tftey 
were lost, 

Where all good things are lost, where Tos- 
tig lost 

The good hearts of his people. It is Har- 
old ! 

Enter Harold. 

Harold, the King ! 
Harold. Call nie not King, but Harold. 
Edith. Nay, thou art King ! 
Harold. Thuie, thine, or King or chur! ! 
My girl, thou hast been weeping: turn not 

thou 
Thy face away, but rather let me be 
King of the nioment to thee, and command 
That kiss my due when subject, which will 

make 
My kingship kinglier to me than to reign 
King of the world without it. 

Edith. Ask me not, 

Lest I should yield it, and the second curse 
Descend upon thine head, and thou be only 
Kins; of tlie moment over England. 

Harold. Edith, 

Tho' somewhat less a king to my true self 
Than ere they crown'd me one, for I have 

lost 
Somewhat of upright stature thro' mine oath. 
Yet thee I would not lose, and sell not thou 
Our living passion for a dead man's dream ; 
Stigand believed he knew not what he 

."ipake. 
Oh God ! I cannot help it, but at times 
They seem to me too narrow, all the faiths 
Of this grown world of ours, whose baby 

eye 
Saw them sufficient. Fool and wise, > fear 
This curse, and scorn it. But a little light ! — 
And on it falls the shadow of the priest ; 
Heaven yield us more ! for better, Woden, 

all 
Our cancell'd warrior-gods, our grim Wal- 

halla, 
Eternal war, than that the .Saints at peace 
The Holiest of our Holiest one should be 
This William's fellow-tricksters ; — better die 
Than credit this, for death is death, or else 



Lifts us beyond the lie. Kiss me — thou 

art not 
A holy sister yet, my girl, to fear 
There might be more than brother in my 

kiss, 
And more than sister in thine own. 

Edith. I dare not. 

Harold. Scared by the church — " Leva 
for a whole life long " 
When was that sung.' 

Edith. Here to the nightingales. 

Harold. Their anthems of no church, how 
sweet they are ! 
Nor kingly priest, nor priestly king to cross 
Their billings ere they nest- 

Edith. They are but of spring, 

They fly the winter change — not so with 

us — 
No wings to come and go. 

Harold. But wing'd souls flying 

Beyond all change and in the eternal dis- 
tance 
To settle on the Truth. 

Edith. They are not so true, 

They change their mates. 

Harold. Do they? I did not know it. 

Edith. They say thou art to wed the Lady 

Aldwyth. 
Harold. They say, they say. 
Edith. If this be politic. 

And well for thee and England — and for 

her — 
Care not for me wlio love thee. 

Gurth (callitig). Harold, Harold ! 

Harold. The voice of Gurth ! {Enter 
Gurth.) Good even, my good broth- 
er ! 
G7<rth. Good even, gentle Edith. 
Edith. Good even, Gurth. 

Gurth. Ill news hath come ! Our hap- 
less brother, Tostig — 
He, and the giant King of Norway,' Harold 
Hardrada — Scotland, Ireland, Iceland, 

Orkney, 
Are landed North of Humber, and in a field 
So packt with carnage that the dikes and 

brooks 
Were bridged and damra'd with dead, have 

overthrown 
Morcar and Edwin. 

Harold. Well then, we must fight. 

How blows the wind? 

Gurth. Against St. Valery 

And William. 
Harold. Well then, we will to the North. 
Gurth. Ay, but worse news : this Wil- 
liam sent to Rome, 
Swearing thou swarest falsely by his Saints: 
The Pope and that Archdeacon Hildebrand 
His master, heard him, and have sent him 

back 
A holy gonfanon, and a blessed hair 
Of Peter, and all France, all Burgundy, 
Poitou, all Christendom, is raised against 

thee ; 
He hath cursed thee, and all those who fight 
for thee, 



HAROLD. 



399 



And given thy realm of England to the bas- 
tard. 
Harold. Ha ! ha ! 

Edith. Oh ! laugh not ! . . . Strange and 
ghastly in the gloom 
And shadowing of this double thunder-cloud 
That lowers on England — laughter ! 

Harold. No, not strange ! 

This was old human laughter in old Rome 
Before a Pope was born, when that which 

reign 'd 
Call'd itself God. — A kindly rendering 
Of " Render unto Caesar." . . . The Good 

Shepherd ! 
Take this, and render that. 

Gurtk. They have taken York. 

Harold. The Lord was God and came as 
man — the Pope 
Is man and comes as God. — York taken ? 

Gurih. Yea, 

Tostig hath taken York ! 

Harold. To York then. Edith, 

Hadst thou been braver, I had better braved 
All — but 1 love thee and thou me — and 

that 
Remains beyond all chances and all church- 
es. 
And that thou knowest. 

Edith. Ay, but take back thy ring. 

It burns my hand — a curse to thee and me. 
1 dare not wear it. 

[Proffers Harold the ring, which he 

takes. 

Harold. But I dare. God with thee ! 

[Exc7tnt Harold and Gukth. 

Edith. The King hath cursed him, if he 

marry me ; 

The Pope hath cursed him, marry me or no ! 

God lielp me! I know nothing — can but 

pray 
For Harold — pray, pray, pray— nolielp 

but prayer, 
A breath that fleets beyond this iron world, 
And touches Him that made it. 



ACT IV. 

SCENE I. — IN NORTHUMBRIA. 

Archbi«;hop ALDiiEo. MoRCAR, Edwin, 
and Forces. E nter H aroi.v: the stand- 
ard of the .i^olden Dragon of IVessex pre- 
ceding him. 

Harold. What ! are thy people sullen 

from defeat ? 
Our Wessex dragon flies beyond the Hum- 

ber, 
No voice to greet it. 

Edwin Let not our great king 

Believe us sullen — only .shamed to the quick 
Before the king — as having been so bruised 
By Harold, king of Norway ; but our help 
Is Harold, king of England. Pardon us, 

thou 1 
Our silence is our reverence for the king ! 



Harold. Earl of the Mercians 1 if the 
truth be gall. 
Cram me not thou with honey, when our 

good hive 
Needs every sting to save it. 

Voices. Aldwyth ! Aldwyth ! 

Harold. Why cry thy people on thy sis- 
ter's name ? 
Morcar. She hath won upon our people 
thro' her beauty. 
And pleasantness among them. 

Voices. _ Aldwyth, Aldwyth ! 

Harold. They shout as they would have 

her for a queen. 
Morcar. She hath followed with our host, 

and suffer"d all. 
Harold. What would ye, men ? 
Voice. Our old Northumbrian crown, 

And kings of our own choosing. 

Harold. Your old crown 

Were little help without our Saxon carles 
Against Hardrada. 

Voice. Little ! we are Danes, 

Who conquer'd what we walk on, our own 
field. 
Harold. They have been plotting here ! 

[A side. 
Voice. He calls us little ! 

Harold. The kingdoms of this world be- 
gan with lillle, 
A hill, a fort, a cily— that reach'd a hand 
Down to the field beneath it, " Be thou 

mine, " 
Then to the next, "Thou also" — if the 

field 
Cried out " I am mine ow n " ; another hill, 
Or fort, or city, took it, and the first 
Fell, and the next became an Empire. 

Voice. Yet 

Thou art but a West Saxon : w? are Danes ! 
Harold. My mother is a Dane, and I am 
English ; 
There is a pleasant fable in old books. 
Ye lake a stick, and break it ; bind a score 
All in one fagot, snap it over knee. 
Ye cannot. 

Voice. Hear King Harold ! he says true ! 
Harold. Would ye be Norsemen ? 
Voices. No ! 

Harold. Or Norman? 

Voices. No ! 

Harold. Snap not the fagol-band then. 
Voice. That is true ! 

Voice. Ay, but thou art not kingly, only 
grandson 
To Wulfnoth, a poor cow-herd. 

Harold. This old Wulfnoth 

Would take me on his knees and tell me 

tales 
Of Alfred and of Athelstan the Great 
Who drove you Danes ; and yet he held that 

Dane, 
Jute, Ancle, Saxon, were or should be all 
One England, for this cow-herd, like my 

father. 
Who shook the Norman scoundrels off the 
throne, 



400 



HAROLD. 



Had in him kingly thoughts — a king of 

men. 
Not made but born, like the great King of 

all, 
A light among the oxen. 

Voice. That is true ! 

Voice. Ay, and I love him now, for mine 
own father 
Was great, and cobbled. 

P'oice. Thou art Tostig's brother, 

Who wastes the land. 

Harold. This brother comes to save 

Your land from waste ; I saved it once be- 
fore, 
For when your people banish'd Tostig hence, 
And Edward would have sent a host against 

you, 
Then I, who loved my brother, bade the king 
Who doted on him, sanction your decree 
Of Tostig's banishment, and choice of Mor- 

car. 
To help the realm from scattering. 

Voice. King ! thy brother, 

If one may dare to speak the truth, was 

wrong'd, 
Wild was he, born so : but the plots against 

him 
Had madden'd tamer men. 

JMorcar. Thou art one of those 

Who brake into Lord Tostig's treasure- 
house 
And slew two hundred of his following, 
And now, when Tostig hath come back with 

power, 
Are frighted back to Tostig. 

Old Thane. Ugh l' Plots and feuds ! 

This is my ninetieth birthday. Can ye not 
Be brethren? Godwin still at feud with 

Alfgar, 
And Alfgar hates King Harold. Plots and 

feuds ! 
This is my ninetieth birthday ! 

Harold. Old man, Harold 

Hates nothing ; not his fault, if our two 

houses 
Be less than brothers. 

Voices. Aldwyth, Harold, Aldwyth ! 

Harold. Again ! Morcar ! Edwin ! What 

do they mean ? 
Edn<i7i. So the good king would deign to 
lend an ear 
Not overscornful, we might chance — per- 
chance — 
To guess their meaning. 

Morcar. Thine own meaning, Harold, 
To make all England one, to close all feuds. 
Mixing our bloods, that thence a king may 

rise 
Half Godwin and half-Alfgar, one to rule 
All England beyond question, beyond quar- 
rel. 
Harold. Who sow'd this fancy here among 

the people ? 
Morcar. Who knows what sows itself 
among the people ? 
A goodly flower at times. 
Harold. The Queen of Wales ? 



Why, Morcar, it is all but duty in her 
To hate me ; I have heard she hates me. 

Morcar. No. 

For I can swear to that, but cannot swear 
That these will follow thee against the Norse- 
men, 
If thou deny them this. 

Harold. Morcar and Edwin, 

When will ye cease to plot against my house ? 

Edwin. The king can scarcely dream that 

we, who know 

His prowess in the mountains of the West, 

Should care to plot against liim in the North. 

Morcar. Who dares arraign us, king, of 

such a plot ? 
Harold. Ye heard one witness even now. 
Morcar. The craven ! 

There is a faction risen again for Tostig, 
Since Tostig came with Norway — fright not 
love. 
Harold. Morcar and Edwin, will ye, if I 
yield. 
Follow against the Norseman ? 
Morcar. Surely, surely ! 

Harold. Morcar and Edwin, will ye upon 
oath 
Help us against the Norman? 

A/orcar. With good will ; 

Yea, take the Sacran)ent upon it, king. 
Harold. Where is thy sister? 
Morcar. Somewhere hard at hand, 

Call and she comes. 

[O/ic £-oes out, then etiter Aldwyth. 
Harold. I doubt not but thou knowest 
Why thou art summon'd. 

Aldwyth. Wliy? — I stay with these, 

Lest thy fieice Tostig spy me out alone, 
And flay me all alive. 

Harold. Canst thou love one 

Who did discrown thine husband, unqueen 

thee? 
Didst thou not love thine husband? 

Aldwyth. Oh! my lord, 

The nimble, wild, red, wiry, savage king — 
That was, my lord, a match of policv. 

Harold. Was it? 

I knew him brave : he loved his land : he 

fain 
Had made her great : his finger on her 

harp 
(I heard him more than once) had in it 

Wales, 
Her floods, her woods, her hills : had I been 

his. 
I had been all Welsh. 

A Idwyth . Oh, ay — all Welsh — and yet 
I saw thee drive him up his hills — and 

women 
Cling to the conquer'd, if they love, the 

more ; 
If not, they cannot hate the conqueror. 
We never — oh I good Morcar, speak for us. 
His conqueror conquer'd Aldwyth 
Harnld. Goodly news ! 

Morcar. Doubt it not thou ! Since Grif- 
fyth's head was sent 
To Edward, she hath said it. 



HAROLD. 



401 



Harold. I had rather 

She would have loved her husband. Ald- 

wyth, Aldwyth, 
Canst thou love me, thou knowing where I 
love ? 
Aldit'yth. I can, my lord, for mine own 
sake, for thine. 
For England, for thy poor white dove, who 

flutters 
I5etween thee and the porch, but then would 

find 
Her nest within the cloister, and be still. 
Harold. Canst thou love one, who cannot 

love again ? 
A Iduiyth. Full hope have I that love will 

answer love. 
Harold. Then in the name of the great 
God, so be it ! 
Come, Aldred, join our hands before the 

hosts. 
That all may see. 

[Ai.DRED joins the hands of Harold 
atid Ai.DWVTH arid blesses them. 
Voices. Harold, Harold and Aldwyth I 
Harold. Set forth our golden Dragon, let 
him flap 
The wings that beat down Wales! 
Advance our Standard of the Warrior, 
Dark among gems and gold ; and thou, 

brave banner, 
Jilaze like a night of fatal stars on those 
Who read their doom anrl die. 
Where lie the Norsemen? on the Derwent? 

ay 
At Stamford-bridge. 

Morcar, collect thy men : Edwin, my friend — 
Thou lingerest. — ■ Gurth, — 
Last night King Edward came to me in 

dreams — 
The rosy face and long down -silvering 

beard — 
He told me I should conc]uer: — 
I am no woman tn put faith in dreams. 

(To his army. ^ 
La'it night King Edward came to me in 

dreams, 
.And told me we should conquer. 

I 'oices. Forward ! Forward ! 

Harnid and Holy Cross ! 
A Idioyth. The day is won ! 

SCENE II. —A PLAIN. BEFORE 
THE BATTLE OF STAMFORD- 
BRIDGE. 

Harold arid his Guard. 
Harold. Who is it comes this way ? Tos- 
tig? {E titer TosTiG ^vith a small 
force. ) ( ) brother. 
What art thou doing here? 

Toslig. I am foraging 

For Norway's army. 

Harold. I could take and slay thee. 

Thou art in arms against us. 

Tostig. Take and slay me. 

For Kdward loved me. 
/far.thl. Kdward bade me spare thee- I 



Tostig-. I hate King Edward, forhe join'd 
with thee 
To drive me outlaw'd. Take and slay me, I 

say, 
Or I shall count thee fool. 

Harold. Take thee, or free thee, 

Free thee orslay thee, Norway will have war; 
No man would strike with Tostig, save for 

Norway. 
Thou art nothing in thine England, save for 

Norway, 
Who loves not thee but war. What dost thou 

here. 
Trampling thy mother's bosom into blood? 
Tostig. She hath wean'd nie from it with 
such bitterness. 
I come for mine own Earldom, my Nor- 

thumbria ; 
Thou hast given it to the enemy of our house. 
Harold. Northumbria threw thee off, she 
will not have thee. 
Thou hast misused her; and, O crowning 

crime ! 
Hast murder'd thine own guest, the son of 

Orm, 
Gamel, at thine own hearth. 

Tostig. The slow, fat fool ! 

He drawl'd and prated so, I smote him sud- 
denly : 
I knew not what I did. 

Harold. Come back to us, 

Know what thou dost, and we may find foh 

thee, 
So thou be chasten'd by thy banishment. 
Some easier Earldom. 

Tostig. What for Norway then? 

He looks for land among you, he and his. 
Harold. Seven feet of English land, or 
something more, 
Seeing he is a giant. 

Tostig. O brother, brother, 

Harold — 

Harold. Nay then come thou back to us ! 
Tostig. Never shall any man say that I, 
that Tostig 
Conjured the mightier Harold from his North 
To do the battle for me here in England, 
Then left him for the meaner ! thee ! — 
Thou hast no passion for the House of God- 
win — 
Thou hast but cared to make thyself a king — 
Thou hast sold me for a cry. — 
Thou gavest thy voice against me in the 
Council — 

1 hate thee, and despise thee, and defy thee. 
Farewell forever ! [Exit. 

Harold. On to Stamford-bridge I 

SCENE III. — AFTER THE BATTLE 
OF STAMFORD-BRIDGE. BAN- 
QUET. 

Harold arid Aldwyth. Gurth, Leof- 
wiN, Morcar, Edwin, atid other Earls 
and Thanes. 

Voices. Hail ! Harold ! Aldwyth ! hail, 
bridegroom and bride ! 



402 



HAROLD. 



Aldwyth {talking -with Harold). An- 
swer them thou ! 
Is this our marriage-banquet? Would the 

wines 
Ot wedding had been dash'd into the cups 
Of victory, and our marriage and thy glory 
Been drunk together ! these poor hands but 

sew, 
Spin, broider — would that they were man's 

to have held 
The battle-axe by thee ! 

Harold. There was a moment 

When being forced aloof from all my guard. 

And striking at Hardrada and his madmen, 

1 had wish'd for any weapon. 

Aldwylh. Why art thou sad ? 

Harold- I have lost the boy who played 

at ball with me, 
With whom I fought another fight than this 
Of Stamford-bridge. 

Aldutyih. Ay! ay! thy victories 

Over our own poor VV'ales, when at thy side 
He conquer'd with thee. 

Harold. No — the childish fist 

That cannot strike again. 

A Idtuyth. Thou art too kindly. 

Why didst thou let so many Norsemen 

hence ? 
Thy fierce forekings had clinch'd their pirate 

hides 
To the bleak church doors, like kites upon a 

barn. 
Harold. Is there so great a need to tell 

thee why? 
Aldwyth. Yea, am I not thy wife? 
Voices. Hail, Harold, Aldwyth ! 

Bridegroom and bride ! 
Aldwyth. Answer them ! 

[To Harold. 

Harold {to all). Earls and Thanes ! 

Full thanks for your fair greeting of my 

bride ! 
Earls, Thanes, and all our countrymen ! the 

day, 
Our day beside the Derwent will not shine 
Less than a star among the goldenest hours 
Of Alfred, or of FHward his great son, 
Or .'\thelstan, or English Ironside 
Who fought with Knut, or Knut who coming 

Dane 
Died English. Every man about his king 
Fought like a king; the king like his own 

man. 
No better ; one for all, and all for one. 
One soul : and therefore have we shatter'd 

back 
The hugest wave from Norseland ever yet 
Surged on us, and our battle-axes broken 
The Raven's wing, and dumb'd his carrion 

croak 
From the gray sea forever. Many are gone — 
Drink to the dead who died for us, the living 
Who fought and would have died, but hap- 
pier lived, 
If happier be to live ; they both have life 
In the large mouth of England, till /i^r voice 
Die with the world. Hail — hail ! 



Morcar. May all invaders perish like Har- 
drada ! 
All traitors fail like Tostig ! 

\_A II drink but Harold. 

Aldwyth. Thy cup 's full ! 

Harold. I saw the hand of Tostig cover it. 

Our dear, dead, traitor-brother, Tostig, him 

Reverently we buried. Friends, had I been 

here. 
Without too large self-lauding I must hold 
The sequel had been other than his league 
With Norway, and this battle. Peace be 

with him ! 
He was not of the worst. If there be those 
At banquet in this hall, and hearing me — 
For there be those I fear who prick'd the 

lion 
To make him spring, that sight of Danish 

blood 
Might serve an end not English — peace 

with them 
Likewise, if they can be at peace with what 
God gave us to divide us from the wolf! 
Aldwyth {aside to Harold). Make not 

our Morcar sullen : it is not wi.se. 
Harold. Hail to the living who fought, 

the dead who fell ! 
Voices. Hail, hail ! 

First Thane. How ran that answer which 
King Harold gave 
To his dead namesake, when he ask'd for 
England ? 
Leo/win. " Seven feet of English earth, 
or something more, 
Seeing he is a giant ! " 

First Tlmne. Then for the bastard 

Six feet and nothing more ! 

Leo/win. Ay, but belike 

Thou hast not learnt his measure. 

First Thane. By St. Edmund 

I over-measure him. Sound sleep to the man 

Here by dead Norway without dream or 

dawn ! 

Second Thane. What is he bragging still 

that he will come 

To thrust our Harold's throne from undet 

him? 
My nurse would tell me of a molehill crying 
To a mountain " Stand aside and room for 
me ! " 
First Thane. Let him come ! let him 
come. Here 's to him, sink or swim ! 
[Drinks. 
Second Thane. God sink him ! 
First Thane. Cannot hands which had 
the strength 
To shove that stranded iceberg off our shores. 
And send the shatter'd North again to sea, 
Scuttle his cockleshell? What 's. Brunan- 

burg 
To Stamford-bridge? a war-crash, and so 

hard. 
So loud, that, by St. Dunsfan, old St. Thor — 
By God, we thought him dead — but out 

old Thor 
Heard his own thunder again, and woke and 
came 



HAROLD. 



403 



Among us again, and mark'd the sons of 

those 
Who made this Britain England, break the 

North : 

Mark'd how tlie war-axe swanj, 
Heard how the war-horn sanj;, 
Mark'd how the spear-head sprang, 
Heard liow the shield-wall rang. 
Iron on iron clang. 
Anvil on hammer bang — 

Second Thane. Hammer on anvil, ham- 
mer on anvil. Old dog, 
Thou art drimk, old dog ! 
First Thane. Too drunk to fight with thee ! 
Second J'kane. Fight thou with thine own 
double, not with me. 
Keep that for Norman William ! 
First Thane. Down with William. 

Third Thane. The washerwoman's brat ! 
Fourth 'Thane. The tanner's bastard ! 
Fifth Thane. The Kalaise byblow ! • 
Enter a Thane, />-<?;« Pevensey, spaifer'd 
•with mjid. 
Harold. Ay, but what late guest, 

As haggard as a fast of forty days. 
And caked and plaster'd with a hundred 

mires. 
Hath stumbled on our cups? 

Thane frotn Pevensey. My lord the 
King ! 
William tlie Norman, for the wind had 
changed — 
Harold. 1 felt it in the middle of that 
fierce fight 
At Stamford-bridge. William hath landed, 
ha? 
Thane froTn Pevensey. Landed at Peven- 
sey — I am from Pevensey — 
Hath wasted all the land at Pevensey — 
Hath harried mine own cattle — God con- 
found him ! 
I have ridden night and day from Pevensey — 
A thousand ships, a hundred thousand men — 
Thousands of horses, like as many lions 
Neighing and roaring as they leapt to land — 
Harold. How oft in coming hast thou 

broken bread ? 

Thane front Pevensey. Some thrice, or so. 

Harold. Bring not thy hollowness 

On our full feast. Famine is fear, were it but 

Ofbeing starved. Sit down, sit down, and eat. 

And, when again red-blooded, speak again ; 

•(.Aside.) 
The men that guarded England to the South 
Were scatter'd to the harvest. . . . No power 

mine 
To hold their force together. . . . Many are 

fallen 
At Stamford-bridge. . . . The people stupid- 
sure 
Sleep like their swine. ... In South and 

North at once 
I could not be. 

(Almtd.) 
Gurth, Leofwin, Morcar, Edwin ! 
\Pointi7tg to the rez>ellers.) The curse of 
England ! these are drown'd in wassail, 



And cannot see the world but thro' their 

wines ! 
Leave them ! and thee too, Aldwyth, must 

I leave — 
Harsh is the news ! hard is our honeymoon ! 
Ihy pardon. ( Turning round to his attend- 

attis. ) Break the banquet up. ... Ye 

four ! 
And thou, my carrier-pigeon of black news, 
Cram thy crop full, but come when thou art 

call'd. [Exit Harold. 



ACT V. 

SCENE L — A TENT ON A MOUND, 
FROM WHICH CAN BE SEEN 
THE FIELD OF SEN LAC. 

Harold, sitting; by hi>n standing Hugh 
Margot the Monk, Gurth, Leofwi.n. 

Harold. Refer my cause, my crown to 

Rome ! . . . The wolf 
Mudded the brook, and predetermined all. 
Monk, 

Thou hast said thy say, and had my con- 
stant " No" 
For all but instant battle. I hear no more. 
Margot. Hear me again — for the last 

time. Arise, 
Scatter thy people home, descend the hill, 
Lay hands of full allegiance in thy Lord's 
And crave his mercy, for the Holy Father 
Hath given this realm of England to the 

Norman. 
Harold. Then for the last time, monk, 

I ask again 
When had the Lateran and the Holy Father 
To do with England's choice of her ovm 

king? 
Margot. Earl, the first Christian Cssar 

drew to the East 
To leave the Pope dominion in the West. 
He gave him all the kingdoms of the West. 
Harold. So ! — did he ? — Earl — I havft 

a mind to play 
The William with thine eyesight and thy 

tongue. 
Earl — ay — thou art but a messenger of 

William. 
I am weary — go : make me not wroth with 

thee' ! 
Margot. Mock-king, I am the messenger 

of God. 
His Norman Daniel ; Mene, Mene, Tekel ! 
Is thy wrath Hell, that 1 should spare to cry. 
Yon heaven is wroth with thee ? Hear me 

again ! 
Our Samts have moved the Church that 

moves the world. 
And all the Heavens and very God : they 

he.ird — 
They know King Edward's promise and 

thine — thine. 
Harold. Should they not know free Eng- 
land crowns herself? 



■»04 



HAROLD. 



Not know that lie nor I had power to prom- 
ise? 

Not know that Edward cancell'd his own 
promise? 

And for my part therein — Back to that jug- 
gler, [Kisi/ig; 

Tell him the Saints are nobler than he 
dreams, 

Tell him that God is nobler than the Saints, 

And tell him we stand arm'd on Senlac Hill, 

And bide the doom of God. 
Margot. Hear it thro' me. 

The realm for which thou art forsworn is 
cursed, 

The babe enwomb'd and at the breast is 
cursed. 

The corpse thou whelniest with thine earth 
is cursed, 

The soul who fighteth on thy side is cursed, 

The seed thou sowest in thy field is cursed. 

The steer wherewith thou ploughest thy field 
is cursed. 

The fowl that fleeth o'er thy field is cursed, 

And thou, usurper, liar — 
Harold. Out, beast monk I 

\^Li/l iiig his hand to strike him. GuRTH 
stofs the hloiv. 

I ever haled monks. 
Ji/argot. I am but a voice 

Among you : murder, martyr me if ye will — 
Harold. Thanks, Gurth ! The simple, 
silent, honest man 

Is worth a world of tonguesters. ( To Mar- 
got.) Get thee gone ! 

He means the thing he says. See him out 
safe. 
Leofiviu. He hath blown himself as red 
as fire with curses. 

An honest fool ! Follow me, honest fool. 

But if thou blurt thy curse among our folk, 

I know not — I may give that egg-bald head 

The tap that silences. 
Harold. See him out safe. 

[Exeunt Leofwin attd Margot. 
Gurth. Thou hast lost thine even temper, 

brother Harold ! 
Harold. Gurth, when I past by Wal- 
tha/i, my foundation 

For men who serve the neighbor, not them- 
selves, 

I cast me down prone, praying ; and, when 
I rose. 

They told me that the Holy Rood had lean'd 

And bow'd above me ; whether that which 
held it 

Had weaken'd and the Rood itself were 
bound 

To that necessity which binds us down ; 

Whether it bow'd at all but in their fancy ; 

Or if it bow'd, whether it symboll'd ruin 

Or glory, who shall tell? but they were 
sad. 

And somewhat sadden'd me. 

Gitrth. Yet if a fear, 

Or shadow of a fear, lest the strange Saints 

By whom thou swarcst should have power 
to balk 



Thy puissance in this fight with him who 

made 
And heard thee swear — brother — /have 

not sworn — 
If the king fall, may not the kingdom fall? 
But if I fall, I fall ; and thou art king ; 
.And if 1 win, I win, and thou art king? 
Draw thou to London, there make strength 

to breast 
Whatever chance, but leave this day to me. 
Leo/will [entering). And waste the land 

about thee as thou goest. 
And be thy hand as winter on the field, 
To leave the foe no forage. 

Harold. Noble (Jurth ! 

Best son of Godwin ! If I fall, I fall — 
The doom of God ! How should the peo- 
ple fight 
When the king flies? And, Leofwin, art 

thou mad ? 
How should the King of England waste the 

fields 
Of England, his own people ? — No glance 

yet 
Of the Northumbrian helmet on the heath? 
Leo/win- No, but a shoal of wives upon 

the heath. 
And some one saw thy willy-nilly nun 
Vying a tress against our golden fern. 
Harold. Vying a tear with our cold dews, 

a sigh 
With these low-moaning heavens. Let her 

be fetch'd. 
We have parted from our wife without re- 
proach, ♦ 
Tho' we have dived thro' all her practices ; 
And that is well. 

Leo/win. I saw her even now : 

She hath not left us. 
Harold. Nought of Morcar then? 

Gurth. Nor seen, nor heard ; thine, Wil- 
liam's or his own 
As wind blows, or tide flows : belike he 

watches. 
If this war-storm in one of its rough rolls 
Wash up that old crown of Northumberland. 
Harold. I married her for Morcar — a sin 

against 
The truth of love. Evil for good, it seem."!. 
Is oft as childless of the good as evil 
For evil. 
Leo/win- Good for good hath borne at 

times 
A bastard false as William. 

Harold. Ay, if Wisdom 

Pair'd not with Good. But I am somewhat 

worn, 
A snatch of sleep were like the peace of 

God. 
Gurth, Leofwin, go once more about the 

hill — 
What did the dead man call it — Sanguelac, 
The lake of blood? 

Leo/win. A lake that dips in William 
As well as Harold. 

Harold. Like enough. I have seen 

The trenches dug, the p.-ilisades uprear'd 



HAROLD. 



40S 



And wattled thick with ash and willow- 

wands ; 
Yea, wroiiglit at them myself. Go round 

once more ; 
See all be sound and whole. No Norman 

horse 
Can shatter England, standing shield by 

shield : 
Tell that again to all. 

Gn?ih. I will, good brother. 

Harold Our guardsman hath but toil'd 
his hand and foot, 
I hand, foot, heart and head. Some wine ! 
[Ove pours wine into a goblet, -which 
he /lands to Harold. 

Too much ! 
What ? we must use our battle-axe to-day. 
Our guardsmen have slept well, since we 
came in ? 
Leo/win. Ay, slept and snored. Your 
second-sighted man 
That scared the dying conscience of the king, 
Misheard their snores for groans. They 

are up again. 
And ch.iuting that old song of Brunanburg 
Where Kngland conquer'd. 

Harold. 'I'hatiswell. The Norman, 

What is he doing ? 

Leo/win. Praying for Normandy ; 

Our scouts have heard the tinkle of their 
bells. 
Harold. And our old songs are prayers 
for England too ! 
But by all Saints — 
Lcofwin. Barring the Norman ! 

Harold. Nay, 

Were the great trumpet blowing doomsday 

dawn, 
I needs must rest. Call when the Norman 
moves — 

[Exeunt all but Harold. 
No horse — thousands of horses — our shield 

wall — 
Wall — break it not — break not — break — 
[Sleeps. 
Vision of Edward Son Harold, I thy 
king, who came before 
To tell thee thou shouldst win at Stamford- 
bridge, 
Come yet once more, from where I am at 

peace, 
Because I loved thee in my mortal day. 
To tell thee thou shall die on Senlac hill — 
Sanguelac ! 

I'ision of Witlfnotli. O brother, from my 
ghastly oubliette 
I send my voice across the n.arrow seas — 
No more, no more, dear brother, never- 
more — 
Sanguelfcc ! 

/ isi'tn -if Tostig. O brother, most un- 
brntherlike to me, 
Thou ;:,ivcst ihy voice against me in my life, 
1 give my voice against thee from the grave — 
Sanguelnc ! 
Vision of Korman Saints. O hapless Har- 
oJd 1 King but for an liour 1 



Thou swarest falsely by our blessed bones 
We give our voice against theeout of heaven! 
Sanguelac ! Sanguelac ! The arrow ! the 

arrow ! 
Harold (starting up, battle-axe in hattd). 

Away ! 
My battle axe against your voices. Peace! 
The king's last word — " the arrow ! " I 

shall die — 
I die for England then, who lived for Eng- 
land — 
What nobler? men must die. 
1 cannot fall into a falser world — 
I have done no man wrong. Tostig, poor 

brother. 
Art thou so anger'd? 

Fain had 1 kept thine earldom in thy hands 
Save for thy wild and violent will that 

wrench'd 
All hearts ol freemen from thee. I could do 
No other than this way advise the king 
Against the race of Godwin. Is it possible 
That mortal men should bear their earthly 

heats 
Into yon bloodless world, and threaten us 

thence 
Unschool'd of Death ? Thus then thou art 

revenged — 
I left our England naked to the Soutli 
To meet thee in the North. The Norse- 
man's raid 
Hath helpt the Norman, and the race of 

Godwin 
Hath ruin'd Godwin. No — our waking 

thoughts 
Suffer a stormless shipwreck in the pools 
Of sullen slumber, and arise again 
Disjointed : only dreams — where mine own 

self 
Takes part against myself! Why? for a 

spark 
Of self-disdain born in me when I sware 
Falsely to him, the falser Norman, over 
His gilded ark of mummy-saints, by whom 
I knew not that I sware, — not for myself — ■ 
For England — yet not wholly — 

Enter Edith. 

Edith, Edith, 
Get thou into tliy cloister as the king 
Will'd it: be safe: the perjury-mongering 

Count 
Hath made too good an use of Holy Church 
I'o break her close ! There the great God 

of truth 
Fill all thine hours with peace! — A lying 

devil 
Hath haunted me — mine oath — my wife — 

i tain 
Had made my marriage not a lie ; I could 

not : 
Thou art my bride ! and thou in after years 
Praying perchance for this poor soul of mine 
In cnid, while cells bencalli .in icy nUiOn — 
'Ihis memory to thee! — and iJiis to Eng- 
land, 
My legacy of war against the Pope 



i 406 



HAROLD. 



From child to child, from Pope to Pope, 

from age to age. 
Till the sea wash her level with her shores. 
Or till the Pope be Christ's. 

Enter Aldwyth. 

Aldwyih {to Edfth). Away from him ! 
Edith. 1 will ... 1 have not spoken to the 
king 
One word ; and one I must. Farewell ! 

f Going 
Harold. Not yet. 

Stay. 
Edith. To what use ? 
Harold. The king coiiunands thee, woman ! 
( To Aldwyth ) 
Have thy two brethren sent their forces in ? 
Aldwyth. Nay, I fear, not. 
Harold. Then there 's no force in thee I 
Thon didst possess thyself of Edward's ear 
To part me I'rom the woman that 1 loved ! 
Thon didu aronse the fierce Northimibrians ! 
Thou hast been false to England and to me ! 
As ... in some sort ... 1 have been false 

to thee 
Leave me No more — Pardon on both sides 
— Go ! 
A Idivyth. Alas, my lord, 1 loved thee. 
Harold. With a love 

Passing thy love for Griffylh ! wherefore 

now 
Obev my first and last commandment. Go ! 
A Idivyth. O Harold ! husband! Shall 

we meet again? 
Harold. After the battle — after the bat- 
tle. Go. 
A Idivyth. 1 go. (Aside.) That I could 
slab her standing there ! 

[Exit AumVYTH. 
Edith. Alas, my lord, she loved thee. 
Harold. Never ! never ! 

Edith. I saw it in licr eyes ! 
Harold. \ see it in thine. 

And not on thee — nor England — fall God's 
doom ! 
Edith. On thee ? on me. And thou art 
England ! Alfred 
Was England. Ethelred was nothing. Eng- 
land 
Is but her king, and thou art Harold ! 

Harold Edith, 

The sign in heaven — the sudden blast at 

sea — 
My fatal oath — the dead Saints — the dark 

dreams — 
The Pope's Anathema — the Holy Rood 
That bow'd to me at Waltham — Edith, if 
1, the last English King of England — 

Edith. No, 

First of a line that coming from the people. 
And chosen by the people — 

Harold. And fighting for 

And dying for the people — 

Edith. Living! living! 

Harold. Yea so, good cheer ! thou an 
Harold, I am Edith ! 
Look not thus wan ! 



Edith. What matters how I look ? 

Have we rot broken Wales and Norse- 
land? slain, 
Whose life was all one battle, incarrrate war, 
Their giant-king, a mightier mau-in-arms 
Than William. 

Harold. Ay, my girl, no tricks in him — • 
No b.isiard he ! when all was lost, he yell'd. 
And bit his shield, and dash'd it on the 

ground. 
And swaying his two-handed sword about 

him. 
Two deaths at every swing, ran in upon us 
And died so, and I loved him as I hate 
This liar who made me liar. If Hate can 

kill. 
And Loathing wield a Saxon battle-axe — 
Edith. Waste not thy might before the 

battle ! 
Harold. And thou must hence. Stigand 
will see thee safe, 
And so — Farewell. 

[He is going, but turns back. 
'I'he ring thou darest not wear, 
I have had it fashion'd, see, to meet my 
hand. 
[Hakold shows the ring which is on 
his finger. 
Farewell I 

[He is goings but turns back again. 
I am dead as Death this day to auglit of 

earth's 
Save William's death or mine. 

Edith. Thy death ! — to-day I 

Is it not thy birthday ? 

Harold. Ay, that happy day ! 

A birthday welcome ! happy days and many ! 
One — this! [They embrace- 

Look, I will bear thy blessing into the battle 
And front the doom of God. 
Norman Cries {heard in the distance). 
Ha Rou ! Ha Rou 1 

Enter Gurth. 
Gnrth. The Norman moves ! 
Harold. Harold and Holy Cress ! 

[Exejmt Harold rt«af Gurth. 

Enter Stigand. 

Stigand. Our Church in arms — the lamb 
the lion — not 
Spear into pnming-hnok — the counter way — 
Cowl, helm; and crozier, battle-axe. Abbot 

Alfwig, 
Leofric, and all the monks of Peterboro' 
Strike for the king ; but \, old wretch, old 

Stigand, 
With hands too limp to brandish iron — and 

yet 
I have a power — would Harold ask me fof 

it — 
I liave a power. 
Edith. What power, holy father? 

Stigitnd. Power now from Harold to com- 
mand thee hence 
And see tliee safe from Scnlac. 
Edith. I remain 1 



HAROLD. 



407 



Stigand. Yea, so will I, claiit;hfer, until I 
tiiid 
Which way the battle balance. I can see it 
From where we stand: and, live or die, 1 

would 
I were among them ! 
Canons from lyaUfiam {singing with- 
out). 

Salva patriam 
Sancte I'ater, 
Salva Hili. 
Salva Spiritus, 
Salva patriam. 
Saiicta Mater.* 

Edith. Are those the blessed angels quir- 
ing, father? 
Stigand No, daughter, but the canons 
out of Waltham, 
The king's foundation, that have follow'd 
him. 
Edith. O God of battles, make their wall 
of shields 
Firm as thy cliffs, strengthen their palisades ! 
What is that whirring sound ? 

Stigand. I'lie Norman arrow ! 

Edith. Look out upon the battle — is he 

safe ? 
Stigand. The king of England stands be- 
tween his banners. 
He glitters on the crowning of the hill. 
God save King Harold ! 

Edith. — chosen by his people. 

And lighting for his people ! 

Stigand- There is one 

Come as Goliath came of yore — he flings 
His brand in air and catches it again; 
He is chanting some old war-song. 

Edith. And no David 

To meet him? 
Stigand. Ay, there springs a Saxon on 
him, 
Falls — and another falls. 
Edith. Have mercy on us ! 

Stigand. Lo ! our good Gurth hath smit- 
ten him to the death. 
Edith. So perish all the enemies of Har- 
old !. 
Canojis (singing). 

Hostis in Angliam 

Ruit pr.tdator, 
Illorum, tlomine. 

Scutum scindaturl 
Hostis per Anglire 
Plagas bacchatur ; 
Casa crematur, 
Pastor fugfatur 
Grex trucidatur — 

Stigand. IIlos trucida, Domine. 

Edith. Ay, good father. 

Canons {singing). 

Illorum scelem 
Poena sequatur I 

English Cries. Harold and Holy Cross ! 

Out ! out I 
Stigand. Our javelins 

Answer their arrows. All the Norman foot 

* The a throu^^hout these hymns should be 
sounded broad, as in "litthci." | 



Are storming up the hill. The range of 

knights 
Sit, eacli a statue on his horse, and wait. 
EngUih Cries. Harold and God Al- 
mighty ! 
Norman Cries. Ha Rou ! Ha Rou I 
Canojis {singing). 

Eqiieb cum pedite 

Pritpcdiatur : 
llloruiu ill lacryinas 

Cruorfundalur! 
Pereaiit, perLaiit. 
Anglia | rccatur. 

Stigand. Look, daughter, look. 
Edith Nay, father, look for me 1 

Stigand. Our axes lighten with a single 
Hash 
About the summit of the hill, and heads 
And arms are sliver'd off and splinter'd by 
Their lightning — and they fly — the Nor- 
man flies. 
Edith. Stigand, O father, have we won 

the day? 
Stigaiui. No, daughter, no — they (all be- 
hind the horse — 
Their horse are thronging to the barricades ; 
1 see the gonfanon of Holy Peter 
Floating above their helmets — ha! he is 
down ! 
Edith. He down ! Who down? 
Stigand The Norman count is down. 
Edith. So perish all the enemies of Eng- 
land ! 
Stigand. No, no, he hath risen again — 
he baics his (ace — 
Shouts something — he points onward — all 

their horse 
Swallow the hill locust-like, swarming up. 
Edith. O God ol battles, make his battle- 
axe keen 
As thine own sharp-dividing justice, heavy 
As thine own bolts that fall on crimeful heads 
Charged with the weight of heaven where- 
from they fall 1 
Canons {singing). 

Jacta tonitnia 

Deus bellator ! 
Surgas e tenebris. 

Sis vindicator I 
Fuhnina. fulmina 

Deus vast.itor I 

Edith. O God of battles, they are three 

to one. 
Make thou one man as three to roll them 
down ! 
Canons (singijtg). 

Equus cum equite 

Dejiciatur! 
Acies, Acies 

Prona stematur ! 
Illorum lanceas 
Fraiige Creator! 

Stigand. Yea, yea, for how their lances 

snap and shiver 
Against the shilling; blaze of Harold's axe ! 
War-woodman of old Woden, how he fells 
The mortal copse of laces I There 1 And 

there I 



4o8 



HAROLD. 



The horse and horseman cnnnot meet the 

shield. 
The blow that brains the horseman cleaves 

the hurse, 
The horse and liorseman roll along the hill. 
They fly once more, they fly, the Norman 
flies! 

Equus cum equite 
Prascipitatur. 

Edith. O God, the God of truth hath 
heard my cry. 
Follow them, follow them, drive them to the 
sea ! 

Illorum scelera 
Pctna sequatur ! 

Stigand. Truth ! no ; a lie ; a trick, a 
Norman trick ! 
They turn on the pursuer, horse against foot. 
They murder all that I'oUow. 

Jidith. Have mercy on us ! 

Stigand. Hot-hcnded fools — to burst the 
wall of shields ! 
They have broken the commandment of the 
king ! 
Edith. His oath was broken — O lioly 
Norman Saints, 
Ye that are now of heaven, and see beyond 
Your Norman shrines, pardon it, pardon it, 
That he forsware himself lor all he loved. 
Me. me and all ! Look out upon the battle ! 
Stigaitd- They press again upon llie bar- 
ricades. 
My sight is eagle, but the strife so thick — 
This is the hottest of it : hold, ash ! hold, 
willow ! 
English Cries. Out, out I 
Nor7)ian Cries. Ha Rou ! 

atigntui. Ha ! Gurth hatli leapt upon 
hiui 
Aucl slain him : he hath fallen. 

Edith. And [ am lieard. 

Glorv to God in the Highest ! fallen, tallen ! 

Stigand. No, no, his horse — • he mounts 

another — wields 

His war-cliib, dashes it on Gurth, and Gurth, 

Our noble Gurih, is dosvn I 

Edith. Have mercy on us ! 

Stigand. And Leol'vvin is down ! 
Editli. Have mercy on us 1 

O Thou that knowest, let not my strong 

prayer 
Be weaken'd in thy sight, because I love 
The husband of another I 

Norman Cries. Ha Rou ! Ha Rou ! 

Edith. I do not hear our English war-cry. 
Siigmd. No. 

Edith. Look out upon the battle — is he 

safe ? 
Stigand. He stands between the banners 
with the dead 
So piled about him he can hardly move. 
Jidith [talws nfi the mar-cry). Out ! out I 
Norinaii Cries. Ha Ron ! 
Edith (cries out). H arold and Holy Cross I 
Norman Crrs. Ha Rou ! Ha Hon I 
Edii/i. Wliat is that whirring sound? 



Stigand. The Norman sends his arrows 
up to fleaven. 
They fall on those within the palisade ! 

Edith. Look out upon the hill — is Har- 
old there .' 

Stiga7id. Sanguelac — Sanguelac — the 
arrow — the arrow ! — away ! 

SCENE II. — FIELD OF THE DEAD. 
NIGHT. 

Aldwvth and Edith. 

Atdiv\tli. O Edith, art thou here? O 

Harold, Harold — 

Our Harold — we shall never see him more. 

Edith. For there was more than sister in 

my kiss, 

And so the saints were wroth. I cannot 

love them, 
For they are Norman saints — and yet I 

should — 
They are so much hoi ierthan their harlot's son 
With whom they play'd their game against 
the king ! 
Aldzvyth. The king is slain, the kingdom 

overthrown ! 
Edith. No matter ! 

Aldwvth. Hou' no matter, Harold slain? — 
1 cannot find his body. O help me thou I 

Edith, if I ever wrought against thee, 
Forgive me thou, and help me here ! 

Edith. No matter. 

Aldiuyth. Not help me, nor forgive me? 
Edith .So thou saidest. 

A Idwyth. I say it now, forgivu me ! 
Edith. Cross me not I 

1 am seeking one who wedded me in secret. 
Whisper ! God's angels only know it. Ha I 
What art ihoi4 doing here among the dead ? 
They are stripping the dead bodies naked 

yonder. 
And thou art come to rob them of their 
rings ! 
Aldivyth O Edith, Edith, I have lost 
both crown 
And husband. 

Edith. So have I. 

A Idwyth. I tell thee, girl, 

I am seeking my dead Harold. 

Edith. And I mine I 

The Holy Father strangled him with a hair 
Of Peter, and liis brother 'i'o tig helpt ; 
The wicked sister clapt her hands and 

laught ; 
Then all the dead fell on him. 

Aldwvth Edith, Edith — 

Edith What was he like, this husband ? 
like to thee? 
Call not (or help from me. I knew him not. 
Heliesnot here: not close beside the standard. 
Here fell the truest, manliest hearts of Eng- 
land. 
Go further hence and find him. 

A Idwyth She is crazed ; 

Edith That doth not matter either. 
Lower the light. 
He must be here. 



HAROLD. 



409 



Enter two Canons, OsGon and Athelric, 

ivith torches. I hey turn oz'er the dead 

bodies and examitie tlietn as they J>ass. 

Osf^od. 1 think that this is Thurkill. 

Athelric. More likely Godric. 

Osgod. I am sure this body 

Is Altwig, the king's uiiole. 

A their ic. So it is I 

No, no — brave Gurth, one gash from brow 
to knee ! 

Osgod. And here is Leofwin. 

Edith. And here is He ! 

Aidwyth. Harold? Oh no — nay, it" it 
were — my God, 
They have so maim'd and martyr'd all his 

face 
There is no man can swear to him. 

Edith. But one woman 1 

Look you, we never mean to part again. 
I have tbund him, I am happy. 
Was there not some one ask'd me for for- 
giveness ? 
1 yield it freely, being the true wife 
Of this dead King, who never bore revenge. 
Enter Count William a7id William 

Ma LET. 

. William. Who be these women? And 
what body is this? 
Edith. Harold, thy better ! 
U'i/iiam. Ay, and what art thou ? 

Edith. His wife ? 

■ Malet. Not true, my girl, here is the 

Queen I 

[Pointing- out Aldwvth. 
IVilliam {to Aliiwvth). Wast thou his 

Queen ? 
Aidwyth- I was the Queen of Wales 
IVilliam. Why then of England. Madam, 
fear us not. 

(To Malet.) 
Kr.owest thou tliis other? 

■ Malet. When I visited England, 
Some held she was his wife in secret — 

some — 
Well — some believed she was his paramour. 
Edith. Norman, thou liest ! liars all of you. 
Your Saints and all ! / am his wife ! and 

she — 
For look, our marriage rinsi ! 

\She draws it off the finger o/Ha rold. 
I lost it somehow — 
I lost it, playing with it when I was wild. 
7 hat bred the doubt: but 1 am wiser 

now . . . 
I am too wise . . . Will none among you all 
Bear me true witness — only for this once — 
That I have found it here again ? 

[She futs it on. 
And thou, 
. Thy wife am I for ever and evermore. 

[Falls on the body and dies. 
Williatn. Death ! — and enough of death 
for this one day. 
The day of St. Calixtus, and the day. 
My day, when I was born. 
Malet' And this dead king's, 



Who, king or not, hath kinglikc fought and 

f;illen. 
His birtliday, too. It seems but yesttreven 
1 held it with him in his English halls. 
His day, with all his rooftree ringing " Har- 
old," 
Before he fell into the snare of Guy ; 
When all men counted Harold wou'd be king. 
And Harold was most happy. 

Williatn. Thou art half Englisll. 

Take them away ! 

Malet, 1 vow to build a church to God 
Here on this hill of battle ; let our high altar 
Stand where their standard fell . . . where 

these two lie. 
Take them away, I do not love to see them. 
Pluck the dead woman off the dead man, 

Malet ! 
Malet. Faster than ivy. Must I hack 

her arms off? 
How shall I part them? 

William. Leave them. Let them be I 
Bury him and liis paramour together. 
He that was false in oath to me, it seems 
Was false to his own wife. We will not 

give him 
A Christian burial : 5'et he was a warrior, 
And wise, yea truthful, till that blighted vOW 
Which God avenged to-day. 
Wrap them together in a purple cloak 
And lay them both upon the waste seashore 
At Hastings, there to guard the land for 

which 
He did forswear himself — a warrior — ay, 
And but that Holy Peter fought for us. 
And that the false Northumbrian held aloof. 
And save for that chance arrow which the 

Saints 
Sharpen'd and sent against him — who can 

tell? — 
Three hiirses had I slain beneath me : twice 
I thought that all was lost. Since I knew 

battle. 
And that was from my boyhood, never yet — 
No, by the splendor of God — have I fought 

men 
Like Harold and his brethren, and his guard 
Of English. Every man about his king 
Fell where he stood. They loved him ; and, 

pray God 
My Normans may but move as true with me 
To the door of death. Of one self-stock at 

first, 
Make them again one people — Norman, 

English ; 
And English, Norman; — we should have 

a hand 
To grasp the world with, and a foot to stamp 

it . . . 
Flat. Praise the Saints. It is over. No 

more blood ! 
I am King of England, so they tluvart me not, 
And I will rule according to their laws. 

{'I o Aldwvth.) 

Madam, we will entreat thee with all honor. 

Aldwyth. My punishment is more than 

I can bear. 



THE REVENGE. 



THE REVENGE. 



A BALLAD OF THE FLEET, 1591. 



At Floras in the Azores Sir Richard Gren- 

ville lay, 
And a pinnace, like a flutter'd bird, came 

flying from far away : 
" Spanish ships of war at sea ! we have 

sighted fifty-three ! " 
Then sware Lord Thomas Howard: "'Fore 

God I am no coward ! 
But I cannot meet them here, for my ships 

are out of gear, 
And the half my men are sick. I must fly, 

but follow quick. 
We are six ships of the line; can we fight 

with fifty-three?" 



Then spake Sir Richard Grenville : " I 

know you are no coward ; 
You fly them for a moment to fight with 

them again. 
But I 've ninety men and more that are 

lying sick ashore. 
I should count myself the coward if I left 

them, my Lord Howard, 
To these Inquisition dogs and the devildoms 

of Spain." 



So Lord Howard past away with five ships 

of war that day. 
Till he melted like a cloud in the silent 

summer heaven ; 
But Sir Richard bore in hand all his sick 

men from the land 
Very carefully and slow. 
Men of Bideford in Devon, 
And we laid them on the ballast down 

below ; 
For we brought them all aboard. 
And they blest him in their pain, that they 

were not left to Spain, 
To the thumbscrew and the stake, for the 

glory of the Lord. 



He had only a hundred seamen to work the 

ship and to fight, 
And he sail'd away from Flores till the 

Spaniard came in sight. 
With his huge sea-castles heaving upon the 

weather bow. 
" Shall we figlit or shall we fly? 
Good Sir Richard, let ua kuow, 



For to fight is but to die ! 

There Ml be little of us left by the time the 
sun be set." 

And Sir Richard said again: "We be all 
good Englishmen. 

Let us bang these dogs of Seville, the chil- 
dren of the devil. 

For I never turn'd my back upon Don or 
devil yet." 



Sir Richard spoke, and he laugh'd, and we 

roared a hurrah, and so 
The little " Revenge" ran on sheer into the 

heart of the foe. 
With her hundred fighters on deck, and her 

ninety sick below ; 
For half of their fleet to the right and half 

to the left were seen. 
And the little "Revenge" ran on thro' the 

long sea-lane between. 



Thousands of their soldiers look'd down 

from their decks and laugh'd, 
Thcflisands of their seamen made mock at 

the mad little craft 
Running on and on, till delay'd 
By their mountain-like "San Philip" that, 

of fifteen hundred tons. 
And up-shadowing high above us with her 

yawning tiers of guns. 
Took the breath from our sails, and we 

stay'd. 



And while now the great "San Philip" 
hung above us like a cloud 

Whence the thunderbolt will fall 

Long and loud, 

P'our galleons drew away 

From the Spanish fleet that day. 

And two upon the larboard and two upon 
the starboard lay. 

And the battle-thunder broke from them all. 



But anon the great " San Philip," she be- 
thought herself and went. 

Having that within her womb that had lefk 
her ill-content : 

And the rest they came aboard us, and they 
fought us hand to hand, 



._ 



THE REVENGE. 



4" 



For a dozen times tliey came with their pikes 
and musqiieteers, 

And a dozen times we shook 'em off as a 
■ dog that shakes his ears 

S When he leaps from the water to the land. 



And the sun went down, and the stars came 

out tar over the summer sea, 
But never a moment ceased the fight of the 

one and the fifty-three. 
Ship after ship, the whole night long, their 

high-built galleons came, 
Ship after ship, the whole night long, with 

her battle-thunder and tiame ; 
Ship after ship, the whole night long, drew 

back with her dead and her shame ; 
For some were sunk and many were shat- 

ter'd, and so could fight us no more — 
God of battles, was ever a battle like this in 

the world before ? 



For he said, " Fight on ! fight on ! " 
Tho' his vessel was all but a wreck ; 
And it chanced that, when half of the 

summer night was gone. 
With a grisly wound to be drest he had 

left the deck. 
Cut a bullet struck him that was dressing it 

suddenly dead, 
And himself he was wounded again in the 

side and the head. 
And he said, " Fight on ! fight on ! " 



And the night went down, and the sun smiled 
out far over the summer sea. 

And the Spanish fleet with broken sides lay 
round us all in a ring ; 

But they dared not touch us again, for they 
fear'd that we still could sting, 

So they watch 'd what the end would be. 

And we had not fought them in vain, 

But in perilous plight were we. 

Seeing forty of our poor hundred were slain, 

And half of the rest of us maim'd for life 

In the crash of the cannonades and the des- 
perate strife ; 

And the sick men down in the hold were 
most of them stark and cold. 

And the pikes were all broken or bent, and 
the powder was all of it spent ; 

And the masts and the rigging were lying 
over the side ; 

But Sir Richard cried in his English pride, 

" We have fought such a fight for a day and 
a night 

As may never be fought again ! 

We have won great glory, my men ! 

And a day less or more 

At sea or shore. 

We die — does it matter when? 



Sink me the ship. Master Gunner — sink her, 

split her in twain I 
Fall into the hands ol God, not into the hands 

of Spain 1 " 



And the gunner said, " Ay, ay," but the 

seamen made reply : 
"We have children, v\e have wives. 
And the Lord hath spared our lives. 
We will make the Spaniard promise, if we 

yield, to let us go ; 
We shall live to fight again and to strike 

another blow." 
And the lion there lay dying, and they yielded 

to the foe. 



And the stately Spanish men to their flag- 
ship l;ore him then. 

Where they laid him by the mast, old Sir 
Richard caught at last. 

And they praised him to his face with their 
courtly foreign grace ; 

But he rose upon their decks, and he cried : 

" I have fought for Queen and Paith like a 
valiant man and true ; 

I have only done my duty as a man is bound 
to do : 

With a joyful spirit I, Sir Richard Grenville, 
die!" 

And he fell upon their decks, and he died. 



And they stared at the dead that had been 

so valiant and true. 
And had holden the power and glory of 

Spain so cheap 
That he dared her with one little ship and 

his English few ; 
Was he devil or man ? He was devil for 

aught they knew. 
But they sank his body with honor down 

into the deep. 
And they mann'd the "Revenge" with a 

swarthier alien crew. 
And away she sail'd with her loss and long'd 

for her own ; 
When a wind from the lands they had ruin'd 

awoke from sleep, 
And the water began to heave and the 

weather to moan. 
And or ever that evening ended a great gale 

blew. 
And a wave like the wave that is raised by 

an earthquake grew. 
Till it smote on their hulls and their sails 

and their masts and their flags. 
And the whole sea plunged and fell on the 

shot-.shatter'd navy of Spain, 
And the little " Revenge " herself went down 

by the island crags 
To be lost evermore in the main. 






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